TERMINATIONS 


The  Death  of  the  Lion 
The    Coxon  Fund 
The  Middle  Tears 
The  Altar  of  the  Dead 


BY 

HENRY  JAMES 

AUTHOR  OF   "DAISY   MILLER"   ETC. 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER   &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 
1895 


3&; 


BY  HENRY  JAMES. 


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NOTE 


o  o/  <7iese  Ta^s  T^ej-e  originally  published 
in  "  TVie  Yellow  Book,"  the  third  in  "  Scribner^s  Magazine,'1'' 
The  last  appears  here  for  the  first  time. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 
THE  DEATH  OF  THE  LION          1 

THE  COXON  FUND 59 

THE  MIDDLE  YEARS 151 

THE  ALTAR  OF  THE  DEAD  185 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  LION 


I  HAD  simply,  I  suppose,  a  change  of  heart,  and 
it  must  have  begun  when  I  received  my  manu 
script  back  from  Mr.  Pinhorn.  Mr.  Pinhorn  was 
my  "  chief,"  as  he  was  called  in  the  office  ;  he  had 
accepted  the  high  mission  of  bringing  the  paper 
up.  This  was  a  weekly  periodical,  and  had  been 
supposed  to  be  almost  past  redemption  when  he 
took  hold  of  it.  It  was  Mr.  Deedy  who  had  let  it 
down  so  dreadfully ;  he  was  never  mentioned  in 
the  office  now  save  in  connection  with  that  mis 
demeanor.  Young  as  I  was  I  had  been  in  a  manner 
taken  over  from  Mr.  Deedy,  who  had  been  owner 
as  well  as  editor  ;  forming  part  of  a  promiscuous 
lot,  mainly  plant  and  office  furniture,  which  poor 
Mrs.  Deedy,  in  her  bereavement  and  depression, 
parted  with  at  a  rough  valuation.  I  could  account 
for  my  continuity  only  on  the  supposition  that  I 
had  been  cheap.  I  rather  resented  the  practice  of 
fathering  all  flatness  on  my  late  protector,  who  was 
in  his  unhonored  grave  ;  but  as  I  had  my  way  to 
make,  I  found  matter  enough  for  complacency  in 
being  on  a  "  staff."  At  the  same  time  I  was  aware 


2  THE    DEATH    OF   THE   LION 

that  I  was  exposed  to  suspicion  as  a  product  of  the 
old  lowering  system.  This  made  me  feel  that  I 
was  doubly  bound  to  have  ideas,  and  had  doubtless 
been  at  the  bottom  of  my  proposing  to  Mr.  Pinhorn 
that  I  should  lay  my  lean  hands  on  Neil  Paraday. 
I  remember  that  he  looked  at  me  first  as  if  he  had 
never  heard  of  this  celebrity,  who  indeed  at  that 
moment  was  by  no  means  in  the  centre  of  the 
heavens;  and  even  when  I  had  knowingly  explained, 
he  expressed  but  little  confidence  in  the  demand 
for  any  such  matter.  When  I  had  reminded  him 
that  the  great  principle  on  which  we  were  sup 
posed  to  work  was  just  to  create  the  demand 
we  required,  he  considered  a  moment  and  then 
rejoined  :  "  I  see  ;  you  want  to  write  him  up." 

"Call  it  that,  if  you  like." 

"And  what's  your  inducement?" 

"  Bless  my  soul — my  admiration  !  " 

Mr.  Pinhorn  pursed  up  his  mouth.  "Is  there 
much  to  be  done  with  him?" 

"  Whatever  there  is,  we  should  have  it  all  to 
ourselves,  for  he  hasn't  been  touched." 

This  argument  was  effective,  and  Mr.  Pinhorn 
responded  :  "But  where  can  you  do  it?" 

"  Under  the  fifth  rib!" 

Mr.  Pinhorn  stared.     "  Where's  that  ?" 

"You  want  me  to  go  down  and  see  him?"  I 
enquired,  when  I  had  enjoyed  his  visible  search  for 
this  obscure  suburb. 

"I  don't  'want5  anything — the  proposal's  your 
own.  But  you  must  remember  that  that's  the  way 


THE    DEATH    OP   THE    LION  3 

we  do  things  now"  said  Mr.  Pinhorn,  with  another 
dig  at  Mr.  Deedy. 

Unregenerate  as  I  was,  I  could  read  the  queer 
implications  of  this  speech.  The  present  owner's 
superior  virtue,  as  well  as  his  deeper  craft,  spoke 
in  his  reference  to  the  late  editor  as  one  of  that 
baser  sort  who  deal  in  false  representations.  Mr. 
Deedy  would  as  soon  have  sent  me  to  call  on  Neil 
Faraday  as  he  would  have  published  a  "  holiday 
number";  but  such  scruples  presented  themselves 
as  mere  ignoble  thrift  to  his  successor,  whose  own 
sincerity  took  the  form  of  ringing  door-bells,  and 
whose  definition  of  genius  was  the  art  of  finding 
people  at  home.  It  was  as  if  Mr.  Deedy  had 
published  reports  without  his  young  men's  having, 
as  Pinhorn  would  have  said,  really  been  there.  I 
was  unregenerate,  as  I  have  hinted,  and  I  was  not 
concerned  to  straighten  out  the  journalistic  morals 
of  my  chief,  feeling  them  indeed  to  be  an  abyss 
over  the  edge  of  which  it  was  better  not  to  peer. 
Really  to  be  there  this  time,  moreover,  was  a 
vision  that  made  the  idea  of  writing  something 
subtle  about  Neil  Paraday  only  the  more  inspiring. 
I  would  be  as  considerate  as  even  Mr.  Deedy  could 
have  wished,  and  yet  I  should  be  as  present  as 
only  Mr.  Pinhorn  could  conceive.  My  allusion  to 
the  sequestered  manner  in  which  Mr.  Paraday 
lived  (which  had  formed  part  of  my  explanation, 
though  I  knew  of  it  only  by  hearsay)  was,  I  could 
divine,  very  much  what  had  made  Mr.  Pinhorn 
nibble.  It  struck  him  as  inconsistent  with  the 


4  THE   DEATH    OF   THE    LION 

success  of  his  paper  that  any  one  should  be  so 
sequestered  as  that.  And,  then,  was  not  an  imme 
diate  exposure  of  every  thing  just  what  the  public 
wanted  ?  Mr.  Pinhorn  effectually  called  me  to 
order  by  reminding  me  of  the  promptness  with 
which  I  had  met  Miss  Braby  at  Liverpool  on  her 
return  from  her  fiasco  in  the  States.  Hadn't  we 
published,  while  its  freshness  and  flavor  were 
unimpaired,  Miss  Braby 's  own  version  of  that  great 
international  episode?  I  felt  somewhat  uneasy  at 
this  lumping  of  the  actress  and  the  author,  and  I 
confess  that,  after  having  enlisted  Mr.  Pinhorn's 
sympathies,  I  procrastinated  a  little.  I  had  suc 
ceeded  better  than  I  wished,  and  I  had,  as  it  hap 
pened,  work  nearer  at  hand.  A  few  days  later  I 
called  on  Lord  Crouchley,  and  carried  off  in  tri 
umph  the  most  unintelligible  statement  that  had 
yet  appeared  of  his  lordship's  reasons  for  his 
change  of  front.  I  thus  set  in  motion  in  the  daily 
papers  columns  of  virtuous  verbiage.  The  follow 
ing  week  I  ran  down  to  Brighton  for  a  chat,  as  Mr. 
Pinhorn  called  it,  with  Mrs.  Bounder,  who  gave 
me,  on  the  subject  of  her  divorce,  many  curious 
particulars  that  had  not  been  articulated  in  court. 
If  ever  an  article  flowed  from  the  primal  fount  it 
was  that  article  on  Mrs.  Bounder.  By  this  time, 
however,  I  became  aware  that  Neil  Paraday's  new 
book  was  on  the  point  of  appearing,  and  that  its 
approach  had  been  the  ground  of  my  original 
appeal  to  Mr.  Pinhorn,  who  was  now  annoyed  with 
me  for  having  lost  so  many  days.  He  bundled  me 


THE    DEATH    OF    THE    LION  5 

off — we  would  at  least  not  lose  another.  I  have 
always  thought  his  sudden  alertness  a  remarkable 
example  of  the  journalistic  instinct.  Nothing  had 
occurred,  since  I  first  spoke  to  him,  to  create  a 
visible  urgency,  and  no  enlightenment  could  pos 
sibly  have  reached  him.  It  was  a  pure  case  of 
professional  flair — he  had  smelled  the  coming 
glory  as  an  animal  smells  its  distant  prey. 


II 

I  MAY  as  well  say  at  once  that  this  little  record 
pretends  in  no  degree  to  be  a  picture  either  of 
my  introduction  to  Mr.  Paraday  or  of  certain 
proximate  steps  and  stages.  The  scheme  of  my 
narrative  allows  no  space  for  these  things,  and 
in  any  case  a  prohibitory  sentiment  would  be 
attached  to  my  recollection  of  so  rare  an  hour. 
These  meagre  notes  are  essentially  private,  so  that, 
if  they  see  the  light,  the  insidious  forces  that,  as 
my  story  itself  shows,  make  at  present  for  publicity 
will  simply  have  overmastered  my  precautions. 
The  curtain  fell  lately  enough  on  the  lamentable 
drama.  My  memory  of  the  day  I  alighted  at  Mr. 
Faraday's  door  is  a  fresh  memory  of  kindness, 
hospitality,  compassion,  and  of  the  wonderful  illu 
minating  talk  in  which  the  welcome  was  conveyed. 
Some  voice  of  the  air  had  taught  me  the  right  mo 
ment,  the  moment  of  his  life  in  which  an  act  of  un- 


6  THE    DEATH    OF    THE    LION 

expected  young  allegiance  might  most  come  home. 
He  had  recently  recovered  from  a  long,  grave 
illness.  I  had  gone  to  the  neighboring  inn  for  the 
night,  but  I  spent  the  evening  in  his  company,  and 
he  insisted  the  next  day  on  my  sleeping  under  his 
roof.  I  had  not  an  indefinite  leave  ;  Mr.  Pinhorn 
supposed  us  to  put  our  victims  through  on  the 
gallop.  It  was  later,  in  the  office,  that  the  dance 
was  set  to  music.  I  fortified  myself,  however,  as 
my  training  had  taught  me  to  do,  by  the  conviction 
that  nothing  could  be  more  advantageous  for  my 
article  than  to  be  written  in  the  very  atmosphere. 
I  said  nothing  to  Mr.  Paraday  about  it,  but  in  the 
morning,  after  my  removal  from  the  inn,  while  he 
was  occupied  in  his  study,  as  he  had  notified  me 
that  he  should  need  to  be,  I  committed  to  paper  the 
quintessence  of  my  impressions.  Then  thinking  to 
commend  myself  to  Mr.  Pinhorn  by  myjcejerity,  I 
walked  out  and  posted  my  little  packet  before 
luncheon.  Once  my  paper  was  written  I  was  free 
to  stay  on,  and  if  it  was  designed  to  divert  atten 
tion  from  my  frivolity  in  so  doing,  I  could  reflect 
with  satisfaction  that  I  had  never  been  so  clever. 
I  don't  mean  to  deny  of  course  that  I  was  aware 
it  was  much  too  good  for  Mr.  Pinhorn  ;  but  I  was 
equally  conscious  that  Mr.  Pinhorn  had  the 
supreme  shrewdness  of  recognizing  from  time  to 
time  the  cases  in  which  an  article  was  not  too  bad 
only  because  it  was  too  good.  There  was  nothing 
he  loved  so  much  as  to  print  on  the  right  occasion 
a  thing  he  hated.  I  had  begun  my  visit  to  Mr. 


THE    DEATH    OF   THE    LION  7 

Paraday  on  a  Monday,  and  on  the  Wednesday  his 
book  came  out.  A  copy  of  it  arrived  by  the  first 
post,  and  he  let  me  go  out  into  the  garden  with  it 
immediately  after  breakfast.  I  read  it  from  be 
ginning  to  end  that  day,  and  in  the  evening  he 
asked  me  to  remain  with  him  the  rest  of  the  week 
and  over  Sunday. 

That  night  my  manuscript  came  back  from  Mr. 
Pinhorn,  accompanied  with  a  letter,  of  which  the 
gist  was  the  desire  to  know  what  I  meant  by 
sending  him  such  stuff.  That  was  the  meaning 
of  the  question,  if  not  exactly  its  form,  and  it  made 
my  mistake  immense  to  me.  Such  as  this  mistake 
was,  I  could  now  only  look  it  in  the  face  and 
accept  it.  I  knew  where  I  had  failed,  but  it  was 
exactly  where  I  couldn't  have  succeeded.  I  had 
been  sent  down  there  to  be  personal,  and  in  point 
of  fact  I  hadn't  been  personal  at  all  ;  what  I  had 
sent  up  to  London  was  just  a  little  finicking, 
feverish  study  of  my  author's  talent.  Any  thing 
less  relevant  to  Mr.  Pinhorn's  purpose  couldn't 
well  be  imagined,  and  he  was  visibly  angry  at  my 
having  (at  his  expense,  with  a  second-class  ticket) 
approached  the  object  of  our  arrangement  only  to 
be  so  deucedly  distant.  For  myself,  I  knew  but 
too  well  what  had  happened,  and  how  a  miracle — 
as  pretty  as  some  old  miracle  of  legend — had  been 
wrought  on  the  spot  to  save  me.  There  had  been 
a  big  brush  of  wings,  the  flash  of  an  opaline  robe, 
and  then,  with  a  great,  cool  stir  of  the  air,  the 
sense  of  an  angel's  having  swooped  down  and 


8  THE    DEATH    OF    THE    LION 

caught  me  to  his  bosom.  He  held  me  only  till 
the  danger  was  over,  and  it  all  took  place  in  a 
minute.  With  my  manuscript  back  on  my  hands 
I  understood  the  phenomenon  better,  and  the  re 
flections  I  made  on  it  are  what  I  meant,  at  the 
beginning  of  this  anecdote,  by  my  change  of  heart. 
Mr.  Pinhorn's  note  was  not  only  a  rebuke  decidedly 
stern,  but  an  invitation  immediately  to  send  him 
(it  was  the  case  to  say  so)  the  genuine  article, 
the  revealing  and  reverberating  sketch  to  the 
promise  of  which — and  of  which  alone — I  owed 
my  squandered  privilege.  A  week  or  two  later  I 
recast  my^peccantj  paper,  and  giving  it  a  particular 
application  to  Mr.  Faraday's  new  book,  obtained 
for  it  the  hospitality  of  another  journal,  where, 
I  must  admit,  Mr.  Pinhorn  was  so  far  justified  that 
it  attracted  not  the  least  attention. 


Ill 

I  WAS  frankly,  at  the  end  of  three  days,  a  very 
prejudiced  critic,  so  that  one  morning  when,  in  the 
garden,  Neil  Paraday  had  offered  to  read  me  some 
thing  I  quite  held  my  breath  as  I  listened.  It  was 
the  written  scheme  of  another  book — something 
he  had  put  aside  long  ago,  before  his  illness,  and 
lately  taken  out  again  to  reconsider.  He  had  been 
turning  it  round  when  I  came  down  upon  him,  and 
it  had  grown  magnificently  under  this  second  hand. 


THE    DEATH    OF   THE    LION  9 

Loose,  liberal,  confident,  it  might  have  passed  for 
a  great,  gossiping,  eloquent  letter — the  overflow 
into  talk  of  an  artist's  amorous  plan.  The  subject 
I  thought  singularly  rich,  quite  the  strongest  he 
had  yet  treated  ;  and  this  familiar  statement  of 
it,  full  too  of  fine  maturities,  was  really,  in  sum 
marized  splendor,  a  mine  of  gold,  a  precious,  inde 
pendent  work.  I  remember  rather  profanely 
wondering  whether  the  ultimate  production  could 
possibly  be  so  happy.  His  reading  of  the  epistle, 
at  any  rate,  made  me  feel  as  if  I  were,  for  the 
advantage  of  posterity,  in  close  correspondence 
with  him — were  the  distinguished  person  to  whom 
it  had  been  affectionately  addressed.  It  was  high 
distinction  simply  to  be  told  such  things.  The 
idea  he  now  communicated  had  all  the  freshness, 
the  flushed  fairness  of  the  conception  untouched 
and  untried  ;  it  was  Venus  rising  from  the  sea, 
before  the  airs  had  blown  upon  her.  I  had  never 
been  so  throbbingly  present  at  such  an  unveiling. 
But  when  he  had  tossed  the  last  bright  word  after 
the  others,  as  I  had  seen  cashiers  in  banks,  weigh 
ing  mounds  of  coin,  drop  a  final  sovereign  into  the 
tray,  I  became  conscious  of  a  sudden  prudent  alarm. 

"  My  dear  master,  how,  after  all,  are  you  going 
to  do  it?"  I  asked.  "It's  infinitely  noble,  but 
what  time  it  will  take,  what  patience  and  independ 
ence,  what  assured,  what  perfect  conditions  it  will 
demand  !  Oh,  for  a  lone  isle  in  a  tepid  sea  !  " 

"  Isn't  this  practically  a  lone  isle,  and  aren't 
you,  as  an  encircling  medium,  tepid  enough  ?  "  he 


10  THE    DEATH    OF   THE    LION 

replied,  alluding  with  a  laugh  to  the  wonder  of 
my  young  admiration  and  the  narrow  limits  of  his 
little  provincial  home.  "  Time  isn't  what  I've 
lacked  hitherto  ;  the  question  hasn't  been  to  find 
it,  but  to  use  it.  Of  course  my  illness  made  a 
great  hole,  but  I  dare  say  there  would  have  been 
a  hole  at  any  rate.  The  earth  we  tread  has  more 
pockets  than  a  billiard-table.  The  great  thing  is 
now  to  keep  on  my  feet." 

"That's  exactly  what  I  mean." 

Neil  Paraday  looked  at  me  with  eyes — such 
pleasant  eyes  as  he  had — in  which,  as  I  now  recall 
their  expression,  I  seem  to  have  seen  a  dim  imagi 
nation  of  his  fate.  He  was  fifty  years  old,  and  his 
illness  had  been  cruel,  his  convalescence  slow.  "  It 
isn't  as  if  I  weren't  all  right." 

"Oh,  if  you  weren't  all  right  I  wouldn't  look  at 
you  !  "  I  tenderly  said. 

We  had  both  got  up,  quickened  by  the  full 
sound  of  it  all,  and  he  had  lighted  a  cigarette.  I 
had  taken  a  fresh  one,  and,  with  an  intenser  smile, 
by  way  of  answer  to  my  exclamation,  he  touched 
it  with  the  flame  of  his  match.  "If  I  weren't 
better  I  shouldn't  have  thought  of  that!"  He 
flourished  his  epistle  in  his  hand. 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  discouraging,  but  that's  not 
true,"  I  returned.  "  I'm  sure  that  during  the 
months  you  lay  here  in  pain  you  had  visitations 
sublime.  You  thought  of  a  thousand  things.  You 
think  of  more  and  more  all  the  while.  That's 
what  makes  you,  if  you  will  pardon  my  familiarity, 


THE    DEATH    OF   THE    LION  11 

so  respectable.  At  a  time  when  so  many  people 
are  spent  you  come  into  your  second  wind.  But, 
thank  God,  all  the  same,  you're  better  !  Thank 
God,  too,  you're  not,  as  you  were  telling  me  yester 
day,  '  successful.'  If  you  weren't  a  failure,  what 
would  be  the  use  of  trying?  That's  my  one 
reserve  on  the  subject  of  your  recovery — that  it 
makes  you '  score.' as  the  newspapers  say.  It  looks 
well  in  the  newspapers,  and  almost  any  thing  that 
does  that  is  horrible.  (  We  are  happy  to  announce 
that  Mr.  Paraday,  the  celebrated  author,  is  again 
in  the  enjoyment  of  excellent  health.'  Somehow  I 
shouldn't  like  to  see  it." 

"  You  won't  see  it.  I'm  not  in  the  least  cele 
brated — my  obscurity  protects  me.  But  couldn't 
you  bear  even  to  see  I  was  dying  or  dead  ?  "  my 
companion  asked. 

"Dead — passe  encore;  there's  nothing  so  safe. 
One  never  knows  what  a  living  artist  may  do — one 
has  mourned  so  many.  However,  one  must  make 
the  worst  of  it ;  you  must  be  as  dead  as  you  can." 

"  Don't  I  meet  that  condition  in  having  just 
published  a  book  ?  " 

"Adequately,  let  us.  hope  ;  for  the  book  is  verily 
a  masterpiece." 

At  this  moment  the  parlor-maid  appeared  in  the 
door  that  opened  into  the  garden.  Paraday  lived 
at  no  great  'Cost,  and  the  frisk  of  petticoats,  with 
a  timorous  "  Sherry,  sir  ? "  was  about  his  modest 
mahogany.  He  allowed  half  his  income  to  his 
wife,  from  whom  he  had  succeeded  in  separating 


12  THE    DEATH    OF   THE   LION 

without  redundancy  of  legend.  I  had  a  general 
faith  in  his  having  behaved  well,  and  I  had  once, 
in  London,  taken  Mrs.  Paraday  down  to  dinner. 
He  now  turned  to  speak  to  the  maid,  who  offered 
him,  on  a  tray,  some  card  or  note,  while  agitated, 
excited,  I  wandered  to  the  end  of  the  garden.  The 
idea  of  his  security  became  supremely  dear  to  me, 
and  I  asked  myself  if  I  were  the  same  young  man 
who  had  come  down  a  few  days  before  to  scatter 
him  to  the  four  winds.  When  I  retraced  my  steps 
he  had  gone  into  the  house  and  the  woman  (the 
second  London  post  had  come  in)  had  placed  my 
letters  and  a  newspaper  on  a  bench.  I  sat  down 
there  to  the  letters,  which  were  a  brief  business, 
and  then,  without  heeding  the  address,  took  the 
paper  from  its  envelope.  It  was  the  journal  of 
highest  renown,  The  Empire  of  that  morning.  It 
regularly  came  to  Paraday,  but  I  remembered  that 
neither  of  us  had  yet  looked  at  the  copy  already 
delivered.  This  one  had  a  great  mark  on  the 
"  editorial  "  page,  and,  uncrumpling  the  wrapper, 
I  saw  it  to  be  directed  to  my  host  and  stamped 
with  the  name  of  his  publishers.  I  instantly 
divined  that  The  Empire  had  spoken  of  him,  and 
I  have  not  forgotten  the  odd  little  shock  of  the 
circumstance.  It  checked  all  eagerness  and  made 
me  drop  the  paper,  a  moment.  As  I  sat  there,  con 
scious  of  a  palpitation,  I  think  I  had  a  vision  of 
what  was  to  be.  I  had  also  a  vision  of  the  letter 
I  would  presently  address  to  Mr.  Pinhorn,  breaking, 
as  it  were,  with  Mr.  Pinhorn.  Of  course,  however, 


THE    DEATH    OF   THE    LION  13 

the  next  minute  the  voice  of  The  Empire  was  in 
my  ears. 

The  article  was  not,  I  thanked  Heaven,  a  review  ; 
it  was  a  "leader,"  the  last  of  three,  presenting 
Neil  Paraday  to  the  human  race.  His  new  book, 
the  fifth  from  his  hand,  had  been  but  a  day  or  two 
out,  and  The  Empire,  already  aware  of  it,  fired,  as 
if  on  the  birth  of  a  prince,  a  salute  of  a  whole 
column.  The  guns  had  been  booming  these  three 
hours  in  the  house  without  our  suspecting  them. 
The  big  blundering  newspaper  had  discovered  him, 
and  now  he  was  proclaimed  and  anointed  and 
crowned.  His  place  was  assigned  him  as  publicly 
as  if  a  fat  usher  with  a  wand  had  pointed  to  the 
topmost  chair  ;  he  was  to  pass  up  and  still  up, 
higher  and  higher,  between  the  watching  faces 
and  the  envious  sounds — away  up  to  the  dais  and 
the  throne.  The  article  was  a  date  ;  he  had  taken 
rank  at  a  bound — waked  up  a  national  glory.  A 
national  glory  was  needed,  and  it  was  an  immense 
convenience  he  was  there.  What  all  this  meant 
rolled  over  me,  and  I  fear  I  grew  a  little  faint — it 
meant  so  much  more  than  I  could  say  "  yea  "  to  on 
the  spot.  In  a  flash,  somehow,  all  was  different ; 
the  tremendous  wave  I  speak  of  had  swept  some 
thing  away.  It  had  knocked  down,  I  suppose,  my 
little  customary  altar,  my  twinkling  tapers  and  my 
flowers,  and  had  reared  itself  into  the  likeness  of  a 
temple  vast  and  bare.  When  Neil  Paraday  should 
come  out  of  the  house  he  would  come  out  a  con 
temporary.  That  was  what  had  happened  ;  the 


14  THE    DEATH    OF   THE    LION 

poor  man  was  to  be  squeezed  into  his  horrible  age. 
1  felt  as  if  he  had  been  overtaken  on  the  crest  of 
the  hill  and  brought  back  to  the  city.  A  little 
more,  and  he  would  have  dipped  down  the  short 
cut  to  posterity  and  escaped. 


IV 

WHEN  he  came  out  it  was  exactly  as  if  he  had 
been  in  custody,  for  beside  him  walked  a  stout 
man  with  a  big  black  beard,  who,  save  that  he 
wore  spectacles,  might  have  been  a  policeman,  and 
in  whom  at  a  second  glance  I  recognized  the  high 
est  contemporary  enterprise. 

"  This  is  Mr.  Morrow,"  said  Paraday,  looking,  I 
thought,  rather  white;  "he  wants  to  publish 
Heaven  knows  what  about  me." 

I  winced  as  I  remembered  that  this  was  exactly 
what  I  myself  had  wanted.  "Already?"  I  ex 
claimed,  with  a  sort  of  sense  that  my  friend  had 
fled  to  me  for  protection. 

Mr.  Morrow  glared,  agreeably,  through  his 
glasses  ;  they  suggested  the  electric  headlights 
of  some  monstrous  modern  ship,  and  I  felt  as  if 
Paraday  and  I  were  tossing,  terrified,  under  his 
bows.  I  saw  that  his  momentum  was  irresistible. 
"  I  was  confident  that  I  should  be  the  first  in  the 
field,"  he  declared.  "A  great  interest  is  naturally 
felt  in  Mr.  Paraday's  surroundings." 


THE    DEATH    OF   THE    LION  15 

"  I  hadn't  the  least  idea  of  it,"  said  Paraday,  as 

he  had  been  told  he  had  been  snoring. 

"  I  find   he    has    not   read    the    article  in   The 


if  he  had  been  told  he  had  been  snoring. 
Empire"  Mr.  Morrow  remarked  to  me.     "  That's 


so  very  interesting — it's  something  to  star|  with," 
he  smiled.  He  had  begun  to  pull  off  his  gloves,  J 
which  were  violently  new,  and  to  look  encourag 
ingly  round  the  little  garden.  As  a  "  surrounding  " 
I  felt  that  I  myself  had  already  been  taken  in  ;  I 
was  a  little  fish  in  the  stomach  of  a  bigger  one. 
"  I  represent,"  our  visitor  continued,  "  a  syndicate 
of  influential  journals,  no  less  than  thirty-seven, 
whose  public — whose  publics,  I  may  say — are  in 
peculiar  sympathy  with  Mr.  Faraday's  line  of 
thought.  They  would  greatly  appreciate  any  ex 
pression  of  his  views  on  the  subject  of  the  art  he 
so  brilliantly  practises.  Besides  my  connection 
with  the  syndicate  just  mentioned,  I  hold  a  particu 
lar  commission  from  The  Tatlcr,  whose  most 
prominent  department,  'Smatter  and  Chatter' — I 
dare  say  you've  often  enjoyed  it — attracts  such 
attention.  I  was  honored  only  last  week,  as  a 
representative  of  The  Tatler,  with  the  confidence 
of  Guy  Walsingham,  the  author  of  *  Obsessions.' 
She  expressed  herself  thoroughly  pleased  with  my 
sketch  of  her  method  ;  she  went  so  far  as  to  say 
that  I  had  made  her  genius  more  comprehensible 
even  to  herself." 

Neil  Paraday  had  dropped  upon  the  garden- 
bench,  and  sat  there  at  once  detached  and  con 
fused  ;  he  looked  hard  at  a  bare  spot  in  the  lawn, 


16  THE    DEATH    OF   THE    LION 

as  if  with  an  anxiety  that  had  suddenly  made  him 
grave.  His  movement  had  been  interpreted  by 
his  visitor  as  an  invitation  to  sink  sympathetically 
into  a  wicker  chair  that  stood  hard  by,  and  as  Mr. 
Morrow  so  settled  himself  I  felt  that  he  had  taken 
official  possession  and  that  there  was  no  undoing  it. 
One  had  heard  of  unfortunate  people's  having  "  a 
man  in  the  house,"  and  this  was  just  what  we  had. 
There  was  a  silence  of  a  moment,  during  which  we 
seemed  to  acknowledge  in  the  only  way  that  was 
possible  the  presence  of  universal  fate  ;  the  sunny 
stillness  took  no  pity,  and  my  thought,  as  I  was 
sure  Faraday's  was  doing,  performed  within  the 
minute  a  great  distant  revolution.  I  saw  just 
how  emphatic  I  should  make  my  rejoinder  to  Mr. 
Pinhorn,  and  that,  having  come,  like  Mr.  Morrow, 
to  betray,  I  must  remain  as  long  as  possible  to 
save.  Not  because  I  had  brought  my  mind  back, 
but  because  our  visitor's  last  words  were  in  my 
ear,  I  presently  enquired,  with  gloomy  irrelevance, 
if  Guy  Walsingham  were  a  woman. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  a  mere  pseudonym;  but  convenient, 
you  know,  for  a  lady  who  goes  in  for  the  larger 
latitude.  '  Obsessions,  by  Miss  So-and-so,'  would 
look  a  little  odd,  but  men  are  more  naturally  in 
delicate.  Have  you  peeped  into  '  Obsessions  '  ?  " 
Mr.  Morrow  continued  sociably  to  our  companion. 

Paraday,  still  absent,  remote,  made  no  answer, 
as  if  he  had  not  heard  the  question :  a  manifestation 
that  appeared  to  suit  the  cheerful  Mr.  Morrow  as 
well  as  any  other.  Imperturbably  bland,  he  was 


THE    DEATH    OF   THE    LION  17 

a  man  of  resources — he  only  needed  to  be  on 
the  spot.  He  had  pocketed  the  whole  poor  place 
while  Paraday  and  I  were  wool-gathering,  and  I 
could  imagine  that  he  had  already  got  his  "  heads." 
His  system,  at  any  rate,  was  justified  by  the  inevi 
tability  with  which  I  replied,  to  save  my  friend 
the  trouble  :  "  Dear,  no  !  he  hasn't  read  it.  He 
doesn't  read  such  things  !  "  I  unwarily  added. 

"  Things  that  are  too  far  over  the  fence,  eh  ?  " 
I  was  indeed  a  godsend  to  Mr.  Morrow.  It  was 
the  psychological  moment ;  it  determined  the  ap 
pearance  of  his  notebook,  which,  however,  he  at 
first  kept  slightly  behind  him,  even  as  the  dentist, 
approaching  his  victim,  keeps  the  horrible  forceps. 
"  Mr.  Paraday  holds  with  the  good  old  proprieties 
— I  see  !  "  And  thinking  of  the  thirty-seven  in 
fluential  journals,  I  found  myself,  as  I  found  poor 
Paraday,  helplessly  gazing  at  the  promulgation 
of  this  ineptitude.  "There's  no  point  on  which 
distinguished  views  are  so  acceptable  as  on  this 
question — raised  perhaps  more  strikingly  than 
ever  by  Guy  Walsingham — of  the  permissibility 
of  the  larger  latitude.  I  have  an  appointment  pre 
cisely  in  connection  with  it,  next  week,  with  Dora 
Forbes,  the  author  of  'The  Other  Way  Round,' 
which  every-body  is  talking  about.  Has  Mr. 
Paraday  glanced  at 'The  Other  Way  Round  '?" 
Mr.  Morrow  now  frankly  appealed  to  me.  I  took 
upon  myself  to  repudiate  the  supposition,  while 
our  companion,  still  silent,  got  up  nervously  and 
walked  away.  His  visitor  paid  no  heed  to  his 
2 


18  THE    DEATH    OF   THE    LION 

withdrawal  ;  he  only  opened  out  the  notebook 
with  a  more  motherly  pat.  "Dora  Forbes,  I 
gather,  takes  the  ground,  the  same  as  Guy  Wal- 
singham's,  that  the  larger  latitude  has  simply  got 
to  come.  He  holds  that  it  has  got  to  be  squarely 
faced.  Of  course  his  sex  makes  him  a  less  preju 
diced  witness.  But  an  authoritative  word  from 
Mr.  Paraday — from  the  point  of  view  of  his  sex, 
you  know,  would  go  right  round  the  globe.  He 
takes  the  line  that  we  haverft  got  to  face  it  ?  " 

I  ,was  bewildered  :  it  sounded  somehow  as  if 
there  were  three  sexes.  My  interlocutor's  pencil 
was  poised,  my  private  responsibility  great.  I 
simply  sat  staring,  however,  and  only  found 
presence  of  mind  to  say  :  "  Is  this  Miss  Forbes 
a  gentleman  ?  " 

Mr.  Morrow  hesitated  an  instant,  smiling.  "  It 
wouldn't  be  '  Miss ' — there's  a  wife  !  " 

"  I  mean  is  she  a  man  ?  " 

"The  wife  ?" — Mr.  Morrow,  for  a  moment,  was 
as  confused  as  myself.  But,  when  I  explained  that 
I  alluded  to  Dora  Forbes  in  person,  he  informed 
me,  with  visible  amusement  at  my  being  so  out  of 
it,  that  this  was  the  "  pen-name "  of  an  indubi 
table  male — he  had  a  big  red  mustache.  "He 
only  assumes  a  feminine  personality  because  the 
ladies  are  such  popular  favorites.  A  great  deal 
of  interest  is  felt  in  this  assumption,  and  there's 
every  prospect  of  its  being  widely  imitated."  Our 
host  at  this*moment  joined  us  again,  and  Mr.  Mor 
row  remarked  invitingly  that  he  should  be  happy 


THE    DEATH    OF   THE   LIOX  19 

to  make  a  note  of  any  observation  the  movement 
in  question,  the  bid  for  success  under  a  lady's 
name,  might  suggest  to  Mr.  Paraday.  But  the 
poor  man,  without  catching  the  allusion,  excused 
himself,  pleading  that,  though  he  was  greatly 
honored  by  the  visitor's  interest,  he  suddenly  felt 
unwell  and  should  have  to  take  leave  of  him — have 
to  go  and  lie  down  and  keep  quiet.  His  young 
friend  might  be  trusted  to  answer  for  him,  but  he 
hoped  Mr.  Morrow  didn't  expect  great  things  even 
of  his  young  friend.  His  young  friend,  at  this 
moment,  looked  at  Neil  Paraday  with  an  anxious 
eye,  greatly  wondering  if  he  were  doomed  to  be 
ill  again  ;  but  Paraday's  own  kind  face  met  his 
question  reassuringly,  seemed  to  say  in  a  glance 
intelligible  enough  :  "  Oh,  I'm  not  ill,  but  I'm 
scared  :  get  him  out  of  the  house  as  quietly  as 
possible."  Getting  newspaper-men  out  of  the 
house  was  odd  business  for  an  emissary  of  Mr. 
Pinhorn,  and  I  was  so  exhilarated  by  the  idea  of 
it  that  I  called  after  him  as  he  left  us  : 

"  Read  the  article  in  The  Empire,  and  you'll  soon 
be  all  right ! " 


"  DELICIOUS,  my  having  come  down  to  tell  him 
of  it !  "  Mr.  Morrow  ejaculated.  "  My  cab  was  at 
the  door  twenty  minutes  after  The  Empire  had 
been  laid  upon  my  breakfast  table.  Now,  what 


20  THE   DEATH    OF   THE   LION 

have  you  got  for  me  ?  "  he  continued,  dropping 
again  into  his  chair,  from  which,  however,  the 
next  moment  he  quickly  rose.  "  I  was  shown 
into  the  drawing-room,  but  there  must  be  more 
to  see — his  study,  his  literary  sanctum,  the  little 
things  he  has  about,  or  other  domestic  objects  or 
features.  He  wouldn't  be  lying  down  on  his  study- 
table  ?  There's  a  great  interest  always  felt  in  the 
scene  of  an  author's  labors.  Sometimes  we're 
favored  with  very  delightful  peeps.  Dora  Forbes 
showed  me  all  his  table-drawers,  and  almost 
jammed  my  hand  into  one  into  which  I  made  a 
dash !  I  don't  ask  that  of  you,  but  if  we  could 
talk  things  over  right  there  where  he  sits  I  feel  as 
if  I  should  get  the  key-note." 

I  had  no  wish  whatever  to  be  rude  to  Mr.  Mor 
row,  I  was  much  too  initiated  not  to  prefer  the 
safety  of  other  ways  ;  but  I  had  a  quick  inspira 
tion,  and  I  entertained  an  insurmountable,  an  almost 
superstitious  objection  to  his  crossing  the  threshold 
of  my  friend's  little  lonely,  shabby,  consecrated 
workshop.  "  No, no — we  sha'n't  get  at  his  life  that 
way,"  I  said.  "  The  way  to  get  at  his  life  is  to 
— but  wait  a  moment  !  "  I  broke  off  and  went 
quickly  into  the  house  ;  then,  in  three  minutes,  I 
reappeared  before  Mr.  Morrow  with  the  two  vol 
umes  of  Faraday's  new  book.  "  His  life's  here,"  I 
went  on,  "  and  Fm  so  full  of  this  admirable  thing 
that  I  can't  talk  of  any  thing  else.  The  artist's 
life's  his  work,  and  this  is  the  place  to  observe 
him.  What  he  has  to  tell  us  he?  tells  with  this 


THE    DEATH    OF    THE    LION  21 

perfection.  My  dear  sir,  the  best  interviewer's  the 
best  reader." 

Mr.  Morrow  good-humoredly  protested.  "Do 
you  mean  to  say  that  no  other  source  of  informa 
tion  should  be  open  to  us?" 

"  None  other  till  this  particular  one — by  far  the 
most  copious — has  been  quite  exhausted.  Have 
you  exhausted  it,  my  dear  sir  ?  Had  you  ex 
hausted  it  when  you  came  down  here  ?  It  seems 
to  me  in  our  time  almost  wholly  neglected,  and 
something  should  surely  be  done  to  restore  its 
ruined  credit.  It's  the  course  to  which  the  artist 
himself  at  every  step,  and  with  such  pathetic  con 
fidence,  refers  us.  This  last  book  of  Mr.  Faraday's 
is  full  of  revelations." 

"  Revelations  ? "  panted  Mr.  Morrow,  whom  I 
had  forced  again  into  his  chair. 

"  The  only  kind  that  count.  It  tells  you  with 
a  perfection  that  seems  to  me  quite  final  all  the 
author  thinks,  for  instance,  about  the  advent  of 
the  f  larger  latitude.'  " 

"  Where  does  it  do  that  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Morrow, 
who  had  picked  up  the  second  volume  and  was 
insincerely  thumbing  it. 

"Everywhere — in  the  whole  treatment  of  his 
case.  Extract  the  opinion,  disengage  the  answer 
— those  are  the  real  acts  of  homage." 

Mr.  Morrow,  after  a  minute,  tossed  the  book 
away.  "  Ah  !  but  you  mustn't  take  me  for  a 
reviewer." 

"  Heaven  forbid  I  should  take  you  for  any  thing 


22  THE    DEATH    OF   THE    LION 

so  dreadful  !  You  came  down  to  perform  a  little 
act  of  sympathy,  and  so,  I  may  confide  to  you, 
did  I.  Let  us  perform  our  little  act  together. 
These  pages  overflow  with  the  testimony  we  want: 
let  us  read  them  and  taste  them  and  interpret  them. 
You  will  of  course  have  perceived  for  yourself  that 
one  scarcely  does  read  Neil  Faraday  till  one  reads 
him  aloud;  lie  gives  out  to  the  ear  an  extraordinary 
quality,  and  it's  only  when  you  expose  it  confidently 
to  that  test  that  you  really  get  near  his  style.  Take 
up  your  book  again  and  let  me  listen,  while  you 
pay  it  out,  to  that  wonderful  fifteenth  chapter.  If 
you  feel  that  you  can't  do  it  justice,  compose 
yourself  to  attention  while  I  produce  for  you — I 
think  lean — this  scarcely  less  admirable  ninth." 

Mr.  Morrow  gave  me  a  straight  glance  which 
was  as  hard  as  a  blow  between  the  eyes  ;  he  had 
turned  rather  red,  and  a  question  had  formed  itself 
in  his  mind  which  reached  my  sense  as  distinctly 

as  if  he  had  uttered  it  :  "  What  sort  of  a  d d 

fool  are  you  f  "  Then  he  got  up,  gathering  to 
gether  his  hat  and  gloves,  buttoning  his  coat, 
projecting  hungrily  all  over  the  place  the  big  trans 
parency  of  his  mask.  It  seemed  to  flare  over  Fleet 
Street  and  somehow  made  the  actual  spot  distress 
ingly  humble  :  there  was  so  little  for  it  to  feed  on 
unless  he  counted  the  blisters  of  our  stucco  or  saw 
his  way  to  do  something  with  the  roses.  Even  the 
poor  roses  were  common  kinds.  Presently  his 
eyes  fell  upon  the  manuscript  from  which  Paraday 
had  been  reading  to  me  and  which  still  lay  on  the 


THE   DEATH    OF   THE   LION  23 

bench.  As  my  own  followed  them  I  saw  that  it 
looked  promising,  looked  pregnant,  as  if  it  gently 
throbbed  with  the  life  the  reader  had  given  it. 
Mr.  Morrow  indulged  in  a  nod  toward  it  and  a 
vague  thrust  of  his  umbrella.  "  What's  that  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  a  plan — a  secret." 

"  A  secret  ! "  There  was  an  instant's  silence, 
and  then  Mr.  Morrow  made  another  movement.  I 
may  have  been  mistaken,  but  it  affected  me  as  the 
translated  impulse  of  the  desire  to  lay  hands  on 
the  manuscript,  and  this  led  me  to  indulge  in  a 
quick,  anticipatory  grab  which  may  very  well  have 
seemed  ungraceful,  or  even  impertinent,  and  which 
at  any  rate  left  Mr.  Faraday's  two  admirers  very 
erect,  glaring  at  each  other,  while  one  of  them  held 
a  bundle  of  papers  well  behind  him.  An  instant 
later  Mr.  Morrow  quitted  me  abruptly,  as  if  he  had 
really  carried  something  off  with  him.  To  reassure 
myself,  watching  his  broad  back  recede,  I  only 
grasped  my  manuscript  the  tighter.  He  went  to 
the  back-door  of  the  house,  the  one  he  had  come 
out  from,  but  on  trying  the  handle  he  appeared  to 
find  it  fastened.  So  he  passed  round  into  the  front 
garden,  and  by  listening  intently  enough  I  could 
presently  hear  the  outer  gate  close  behind  him  with 
a  bang.  I  thought  again  of  the  thirty-seven 
influential  journals  and  wondered  what  would  be 
his  revenge.  I  hasten  to  add  that  he  was  magnani 
mous  ;  which  was  just  the  most  dreadful  thing  he 
could  have  been.  The  Tatler  published  a  charm 
ing,  chatty,  familiar  account  of  Mr.  Faraday's 


24  THE   DEATH    OF   THE   LION 

"  Home-life,"  and  on  tbe  wings  of  the  thirty-seven 
influential  journals  it  went,  to  use  Mr.  Morrow's 
own  expression,  right  round  the  globe. 


VI 

A  WEEK  later,  early  in  May,  my  glorified  friend 
came  up  to  town,  where,  it  may  be  veraciously 
recorded,  he  was  the  king  of  the  beasts  of  the  year. 
No  advancement  was  ever  more  rapid,  no  exalta 
tion  more  complete,  no  bewilderment  more  teach 
able.  His  book  sold  but  moderately,  though  the 
article  in  The  Empire  had  done  unwonted  wonders 
for  it  ;  but  he  circulated  in  person  in  a  manner 
that  the  libraries  might  well  have  envied.  His 
formula  had  been  found — he  was  a  "  revelation." 
His  momentary  terror  had  been  real,  just  as  mine 
had  been — the  overclouding  of  his  passionate  desire 
to  be  left  to  finish  his  work.  He  was  far  from 
unsociable,  but  he  had  the  finest  conception  of 
being  let  alone  that  I  have  ever  met.  For  the 
time,  however,  he  took  his  profit  where  it  seemed 
most  to  crowd  upon  him,  having  in  his  pocket  the 
portable  sophistries  about  the  nature  of  the  artist's 
task.  Observation  too  was  a  kind  of  work  and 
experience  a  kind  of  success  ;  London  dinners  were 
all  material  and  London  ladies  were  fruitful  toil. 
"  No  one  has  the  faintest  conception  of  what  I'm 
trying  for,"  he  said  to  me,  "  and  not  many  have 


THE    DEATH    OF   THE    LION  25 

read  three  pages  that  I've  written  ;  but  I  must 
dine  with  them  first — they'll  find  out  why  when 
they've  time."  It  was  rather  rude  justice,  per 
haps  ;  but  the  fatigue  had  the  merit  of  being  a 
new  sort,  and  the  phantasmagoric  town  was  prob 
ably  after  all  less  of  a  battlefield  than  the  haunted 
study.  He  once  told  me  that  he  had  had  no  per 
sonal  life  to  speak  of  since  his  fortieth  year,  but 
had  had  more  than  was  good  for  him  before. 
London  closed  the  parenthesis  and  exhibited  him 
in  relations  ;  one  of  the  most  inevitable  of  these 
being  that  in  which  he  found  himself  to  Mrs. 
Weeks  Wimbush,  wife  of  the  boundless  brewer 
and  proprietress  of  the  universal  menagerie.  In 
this  establishment,  as  every-body  knows,  on  occa 
sions  when  the  crush  is  great,  the  animals  rub 
shoulders  freely  with  the  spectators  and  the  lions 
sit  down  for  whole  evenings  with  the  lambs. 

It  had  been  ominously  clear  to  me  from  the  first 
that  in  Neil  Paraday  this  lady,  who,  as  all  the 
world  agreed,  was  tremendous  fun,  considered  that 
she  had  secured  a  prime  attraction,  a  creature  of 
almost  heraldic  oddity.  Nothing  could  exceed  her 
enthusiasm  over  her  capture,  and  nothing  could 
exceed  the  confused  apprehensions  it  excited  in 
me.  I  had  an  instinctive  fear  of  her  which  I  tried 
without  effect  to  conceal  from  her  victim,  but 
which  I  let  her  perceive  with  perfect  impunity. 
Paraday  heeded  it,  but  she  never  did,  for  her  con 
science  was  that  of  a  romping  child.  She  was  a 
blind,  violent  force,  to  which  I  could  attach  no 


26  THE    DEATH    OF    THE    LION 

more  idea  of  responsibility  than  to  the  creaking  of 
a  sign  in  the  wind.  It  was  difficult  to  say  what 
she  conduced  to  but  to  circulation.  She  was  con 
structed  of  steel  and  leather,  and  all  I  asked  of  her 
for  our  tractable  friend  was  not  to  do  him  to 
death.  He  had  consented  for  a  time  to  be  of 
india-rubber,  but  my  thoughts  were  fixed  on  the 
day  he  should  resume  his  shape  or  at  least  get  back 
into  his  box.  It  was  evidently  all  right,  but  I 
should  be  glad  when  it  was  well  over.  I  had  a 
special  fear — the  impression  was  ineffaceable  of  the 
hour  when,  after  Mr.  Morrow's  departure,  I  had 
found  him  on  the  sofa  in  his  study.  That  pretext 
of  indisposition  had  not  in  the  least  been  meant  as 
a  snub  to  the  envoy  of  T/ie  Tatler — he  had  gone  to 
lie  down  in  very  truth.  He  had  felt  a  pang  of  his 
old  pain,  the  result  of  the  agitation  wrought  in 
him  by  this  forcing  open  of  a  new  period.  His  old 
programme,  his  old  ideal  even  had  to  be  changed. 
Say  what  one  would,  success  was  a  complication 
and  recognition  had  to  be  reciprocal.  The  monas 
tic  life,  the  pious  illumination  of  the  missal  in  the 
convent  cell  were  things  of  the  gathered  past.  It 
didn't  engender  despair,  but  it  at  least  required 
adjustment.  Before  I  left  him  on  that  occasion 
we  had  passed  a  bargain,  my  part  of  which  was 
that  I  should  make  it  my  business  to  take  care  of 
him.  Let  whoever  would  represent  the  interest  in 
his  presence  (I  had  a  mystical  prevision  of  Mrs. 
Weeks  Wimbush)  I  should  represent  the  interest 
in  his  work — in  other  words  in  his  absence.  These 


THE    DEATH    OF    THE    LION  27 

two  interests  were  in  their  essence  opposed  ;  and 
I  doubt,  as  youth  is  fleeting,  if  I  shall  ever  again 
know  the  intensity  of  joy  with  which  I  felt  that  in 
so  good  a  cause  I  was  willing  to  make  myself 
odious. 

One  day,  in  Sloane  Street,  I  found  myself  ques 
tioning  Faraday's  landlord,  who  had  come  to  the 
door  in  answer  to  my  knock.  Two  vehicles,  a 
barouche  and  a  smart  hansom,  were  drawn  up  be 
fore  the  house. 

"In  the  drawing-room,  sir?  Mrs.  Weeks  Wim- 
bush." 

"  And  in  the  dining-room  ?  " 

"  A  young  lady,  sir — waiting  :  I  think  a  for 
eigner." 

It  was  three  o'clock,  and  on  days  when  Paraday 
didn't  lunch  out  he  attached  a  value  to  these  sub 
jugated  hours.  On  which  days,  however,  didn't 
the  dear  man  lunch  out  ?  Mrs.  Wimbush,  at  such 
a  crisis,  would  have  rushed  round  immediately 
after  her  own  repast.  I  went  into  the  dining-room 
first,  postponing  the  pleasure  of  seeing  how,  up 
stairs,  the  lady  of  the  barouche  would,  on  my 
arrival,  point  the  moral  of  my  sweet  solicitude. 
No  one  took  such  an  interest  as  herself  in  his 
doing  only  what  was  good  for  him,  and  she  was 
always  on  the  spot  to  see  that  he  did  it.  She 
made  appointments  with  him  to  discuss  the  best 
means  of  economizing  his  time  and  protecting  his 
privacy.  She  further  made  his  health  her  special 
business,  and  had  so  much  sympathy  with  my  own 


28  THE   DEATH    OF   THE    LION 

zeal  for  it  that  she  was  the  author  of  pleasing  fic 
tions  on  the  subject  of  what  my  devotion  had  led 
me  to  give  up.  I  gave  up  nothing  (I  don't  count 
Mr.  Pinhorn)  because  I  had  nothing,  and  all  I  had 
as  yet  achieved  was  to  find  myself  also  in  the 
menagerie.  I  had  dashed  in  to  save  my  friend,  but 
I  had  only  got  domesticated  and  wedged  ;  so  that 
I  could  do  nothing  for  him  but  exchange  with  him 
over  people's  heads  looks  of  intense  but  futile 
intelligence. 


VII 

THE  young  lady  in  the  dining-room  had  a  brave 
face,  black  hair,  blue  eyes,  and  in  her  lap  a  big 
volume.  "  I've  come  for  his  autograph,"  she  said, 
when  I  had  explained  to  her  that  I  was  under 
bonds  to  see  people  for  him  when  he  was  occupied. 
"  I've  been  waiting  half  an  hour,  but  I'm  prepared 
to  wait  all  day."  I  don't  know  whether  it  was 
this  that  told  me  she  was  American,  for  the  pro 
pensity  to  wait  all  day  is  not  in  general  character 
istic  of  her  race.  I  was  enlightened  probably  not 
so  much  by  the  spirit  of  the  utterance  as  by  some 
quality  of  its  sound.  At  any  rate  I  saw  she  had 
an  individual  patience  and  a  lovely  frock,  together 
with  an  expression  that  played  among  her  pretty 
features  like  a  breeze  among  flowers.  Putting  her 
book  upon  the  table,  she  showed  me  a  massive 
album,  showily  bound  and  full  of  autographs  of 


THE    DEATH    OF   THE    LION  29 

price.  The  collection  of  faded  notes,  of  still  more 
faded  "  thoughts,"  of  quotations,  platitudes,  signa 
tures,  represented  a  formidable  purpose. 

"Most  people  apply  to  Mr.  Paraday  by  letter, 
you  know,"  I  said. 

"  Yes,  but  he  doesn't  answer.  I've  written 
three  times." 

"Very  true,"  I  reflected;  "the  sort  of  letter, 
you  mean  goes  straight  into  the  fire." 

"  How  do  you  know  the  sort  I  mean  ?  "  My 
interlocutress  had  blushed  and  smiled,  and  in  a 
moment  she  added  :  "  I  don't  believe  he  gets 
many  like  them  ! " 

"  I'm  sure  they're  beautiful,  but  he  burns  with 
out  reading."  I  didn't  add  that  I  had  told  him  he 
ought  to. 

"  Isn't  he  then  in  danger  of  burning  things  of 
importance  ?  " 

"  He  would  be,  if  distinguished  men  hadn't  an 
infallible  nose  for  nonsense." 

She  looked  at  me  a  moment — her  face  was  sweet 
and  gay.  "Do  you  burn  without  reading,  too?" 
she  asked  ;  in  answer  to  which  I  assured  her  that, 
if  she  would  trust  me  with  her  repository,  I  would 
see  that  Mr.  Paraday  should  write  his  name  in  it. 

She  considered  a  little.  "  That's  very  well,  but 
it  wouldn't  make  me  see  him." 

"  Do  you  want  very  much  to  see  him  ? "  It 
seemed  ungracious  to  catechise  so  charming  a 
creature,  but  somehow  I  had  never  yet  taken  my 
duty  to  the  great  author  so  seriously. 


30  THE    DEATH    OF   THE    LION 

"  Enough  to  have  come  from  America  for  the 
purpose." 

I  stared.     "  All  alone  ?  " 

"I  don't  see  that  that's  exactly  your  business; 
but  if  it  will  make  me  more  appealing  I'll  confess 
that  I'm  quite  by  myself.  I  had  to  come  alone  or 
not  come  at  all." 

She  was  interesting  ;  I  could  imagine  that  she 
had  lost  parents,  natural  protectors — could  con 
ceive  even  that  she  had  inherited  money.  I  was 
in  a  phase  of  my  own  fortune  when  keeping  han 
soms  at  doors  seemed  to  me  pure  swagger.  As  a 
trick  of  this  bold  and  sensitive  girl,  however,  it 
became  romantic — a  part  of  the  general  romance 
of  her  freedom,  her  errand,  her  innocence.  The 
confidence  of  young  Americans  was  notorious,  and 
I  speedily  arrived  at  a  conviction  that  no  impulse 
could  have  been  more  generous  than  the  impulse 
that  had  operated  here.  I  foresaw  at  that  moment 
that  it  would  make  her  my  peculiar  charge,  just  as 
circumstances  had  made  Neil  Paraday.  She  would 
be  another  person  to  look  after,  and  one's  honor 
would  be  concerned  in  guiding  her  straight. 
These  things  became  clearer  to  me  later  ;  at  the 
instant  I  had  scepticism  enough  to  observe  to  her, 
as  I  turned  the  pages  of  her  volume,  that  her  net 
had,  all  the  same,  caught  many  a  big  fish.  She 
appeared  to  have  had  fruitful  access  to  the  great 
ones  of  the  earth  ;  there  were  people,  moreover, 
whose  signatures  she  had  presumably  secured 
without  a  personal  interview.  She  couldn't  have 


THE    DEATH    OF   THE    LION  31 

worried  George  Washington  and  Friedrich  Schiller 
and  Hannah  More.  She  met  this  argument,  to  my 
surprise,  by  throwing  up  the  album  without  a 
pang.  It  wasn't  even  her  own  ;  she  was  responsi 
ble  for  none  of  its  treasures.  It  belonged  to  a  girl 
friend  in  America,  a  young  lady  in  a  Western  city. 
This  young  lady  had  insisted  on  her  bringing  it, 
to  pick  up  more  autographs  ;  she  thought  they 
might  like  to  see,  in  Europe,  in  what  company 
they  would  be.  The  "  girl-friend,"  the  Western 
city,  the  immortal  names,  the  curious  errand,  the 
idyllic  faith,  all  made  a  story  as  strange  to  me,  and 
as  beguiling,  as  some  tale  in  the  Arabian  Nights. 
Thus  it  was  that  my  informant  had  encumbered 
herself  with  the  ponderous  tome  ;  but  she  hastened 
to  assure  me  that  this  was  the  first  time  she  had 
brought  it  out.  For  her  visit  to  Mr.  Paraday  it 
had  simply  been  a  pretext.  She  didn't  really  care 
a  straw  that  he  should  write  his  name  ;  what  she 
did  want  was  to  look  straight  into  his  face. 

I  demurred  a  little.  "  And  why  do  you  require 
to  do  that?" 

"  Because  I  just  love  him  ! "  Before  I  could 
recover  from  the  agitating  effect  of  this  crystal 
ring  my  companion  had  continued  :  "  Hasn't  there 
ever  been  any  face  that  you've  wanted  to  look 
into?" 

How  could  I  tell  her  so  soon  how  much  I  appre 
ciated  the  opportunity  of  looking  into  hers  ?  I 
could  only  assent  in  general  to  the  proposition  that 
there  were  certainly  for  every  one  such  hanker- 


32  THE    DEATH    OF   THE    LION 

ings,  and  even  such  faces  ;  and  I  felt  that  the 
crisis  demanded  all  my  lucidity,  all  my  wisdom. 
"  Oh,  yes  !  I'm  a  student  of  physiognomy.  Do  you 
mean,"  I  pursued,  "  that  you've  a  passion  for  Mr. 
Faraday's  books  ?  " 

"  They've  been  every  thing  to  me,  and  a  little 
more  beside — I  know  them  by  heart.  They've 
completely  taken  hold  of  me.  There's  no  author 
about  whom  I  feel  as  I  do  about  Neil  Far 
aday." 

"  Permit  me  to  remark  then,"  I  presently  re 
joined,  "  that  you're  one  of  the  right  sort." 

"One  of  the  enthusiasts?     Of  course  I  am!" 

"  Ob,  there  are  enthusiasts  who  are  quite  of  the 
wrong.  I  mean  you're  one  of  those  to  whom  an 
appeal  can  be  made." 

"  An  appeal  ?  "  Her  face  lighted  as  if  with  the 
chance  of  some  great  sacrifice. 

If  she  was  ready  for  one  it  was  only  waiting  for 
her,  and  in  a  moment  I  mentioned  it.  "  Give  up 
this  crude  purpose  of  seeing  him.  Go  away  with 
out  it.  That  will  be  far  better." 

She  looked  mystified  ;  then  she  turned  visibly 
pale.  "  Why,  hasn't  he  any  personal  charm  ? " 
The  girl  was  terrible  and  laughable  in  her  bright 
directness. 

"  Ah,  that  dreadful  word  '  personal '  !  "  I  ex 
claimed  ;  "  we're  dying  of  it,  and  you  women  bring 
it  out  with  murderous  effect.  When  you  en 
counter  a  genius  as  fine  as  this  idol  of  ours,  let 
him  off  the  dreary  duty  of  being  a  personality  as 


THE    DEATH    OF   THE   LION  33 

well.     Know  him  only  by  what's  best  in  him,  and 
spare  him  for  the  same  sweet  sake." 

My  young  lady  continued  to  look  at  me  in  con 
fusion  and  mistrust,  and  the  result  of  her  reflection 
on  what  I  had  just  said  was  to  make  her  suddenly 
break  out :  "  Look  here,  sir — what's  the  matter 
with  him  ?  " 

"  The  matter  with  him  is  that,  if  he  doesn't  look 
out,  people  will  eat  a  great  hole  in  his  life." 

She  considered  a  moment.  "  He  hasn't  any  dis 
figurement  ?  " 

"  Nothing  to  speak  of  !  " 

"Do  you  mean  that  social  engagements  inter-  ' 
fere  with  his  occupations  ?" 

"  That  but  feebly  expresses  it." 

"  So  that  he  can't  give  himself  up  to  his  beautiful 
imagination  ?  " 

"  He's  badgered,  bothered,  overwhelmed,  on  the 
pretext  of  being  applauded.  People  expect  him  to 
give  them  his  time,  his  golden  time,  who  would 
not  themselves  give  five  shillings  for  one  of  his 
books." 

"  Five  ?    I'd  give  five  thousand  !  " 

"  Give  your  sympathy — give  your  forbearance. 
Two-thirds  of  those  who  approach  him  only  do  it 
to  advertise  themselves." 

"  Why,  it's  too  bad  !  "  the  girl  exclaimed,  with 
the  face  of  an  angel.  "  It's  the  first  time  I  was 
ever  called  crude  !  "  she  laughed. 

I  followed  up  my  advantage.     "  There's  a  lady 
with  him  now  who's  a  terrible  complication,  and 
3 


34  THE    DEATH    OF   THE   LION 

who  yet  hasn't  read,  I  am  sure,  ten  pages  that  he 
ever  wrote." 

My  visitor's  wide  eyes  grew  tenderer.  "  Then 
how  does  she  talk " 

"  Without  ceasing.  I  only  mention  her  as  a 
single  case.  Do  you  want  to  know  how  to  show  a 
superlative  consideration  ?  Simply  avoid  him." 

"  Avoid  him  ?  "  she  softly  wailed. 

" Don't  force  him  to  have  to  take  account  of 
you  ;  admire  him  in  silence,  cultivate  him  at  a  dis 
tance  and  secretly  appropriate  his  message.  Do 
you  want  to  know,"  I  continued,  warming  to  my 
idea,  "  how  to  perform  an  act  of  homage  really 
sublime?"  Then,  as  she  hung  on  my  words: 
"  Succeed  in  never  seeing  him  at  all  !  " 

"  Never  at  all  ?  "  she  pathetically  gasped. 

"  The  more  you  get  into  his  writings  the  less 
you'll  want  to  ;  and  you'll  be  immensely  sustained 
by  the  thought  of  the  good  you're  doing  him." 

She  looked  at  me  without  resentment  or  spite, 
and  at  the  truth  I  had  put  before  her  with  candor, 
credulity,  pity.  I  was  afterward  happy  to  remem 
ber  that  she  must  have  recognized  in  my  face  the 
liveliness  of  my  interest  in  herself.  "  I  think  I  see 
what  you  mean." 

"  Ob,  I  express  it  badly;  but  I  should  be  de 
lighted  if  you  would  let  me  come  to  see  you — to 
explain  it  better." 

She  made  no  response  to  this,  and  her  thoughtful 
eyes  fell  on  the  big  album,  on  which  she  presently 
laid  her  hands  as  if  to  take  it  away.  "  I  did  use  to 


THE    DEATH    OF   THE   LION  35 

say  out  West  that  they  might  write  a  little  less  for 
autographs  (to  all  the  great  poets,  you  know)  and 
study  the  thoughts  and  style  a  little  more." 

"  What  do  they  care  for  the  thoughts  and  style  ? 
They  didn't  even  understand  you.  I'm  not  sure," 
I  added,  "  that  I  do  myself,  and  I  dare  say  that  you 
by  no  means  make  me  out."  She  had  got  up  to 
go,  and  though  I  wanted  her  to  succeed  in  not  see 
ing  Neil  Paraday  I  wanted  her  also,  inconsequently, 
to  remain  in  the  house.  I  was  at  any  rate  far 
from  desiring  to  hustle  her  off.  As  Mrs.  Weeks 
Wimbush,  upstairs,  was  still  saving  our  friend  in 
her  own  way,  I  asked  my  young  lady  to  let  me 
briefly  relate,  in  illustration  of  my  point,  the  little 
incident  of  my  having  gone  down  into  the  country 
for  a  profane  purpose  and  been  converted  on  the 
spot  to  holiness.  Sinking  again  into  her  chair  to 
listen,  she  showed  a  deep  interest  in  the  anecdote. 
Then,  thinking  it  over  gravely,  she  exclaimed, 
with  her  odd  intonation  : 

"  Yes,  but  you  do  see  him  !  "  I  had  to  admit 
that  this  was  the  case  ;  and  I  was  not  so  prepared 
with  an  effective  attenuation  as  I  could  have 
wished.  She  eased  the  situation  off,  however,  by 
the  charming  quaintness  with  which  she  finally 
said  :  "  Well,  I  wouldn't  want  him  to  be  lonely  !  " 
This  time  she  rose  in  earnest,  but  I  persuaded  her 
to  let  me  keep  the  album  to  show  to  Mr.  Paraday. 
I  assured  her  I  would  bring  it  back  to  her  myself. 
"  Well,  you'll  find  my  address  somewhere  in  it,  on 
a  paper  !  "  she  sighed  resignedly,  at  the  door. 


VIII 

I  BLUSH  to  confess  it,  but  I  invited  Mr.  Paraday 
that  very  day  to  transcribe  into  the  album  one  of 
his  most  characteristic  passages.  I  told  him  how 
I  had  got  rid  of  the  strange  girl  who  had  brought 
it — her  ominous  name  was  Miss  Hurter,  and  she 
lived  at  an  hotel  ;  quite  agreeing  with  him,  more 
over,  as  to  the  wisdom  of  getting  rid  with  equal 
promptitude  of  the  book  itself.  This  was  why 
I  carried  it  to  Albemarle  Street  no  later  than 
on  the  morrow.  I  failed  to  find  her  at  home,  but 
she  wrote  to  me  and  I  went  again  :  she  wanted 
so  much  to  hear  more  about  Neil  Paraday.  I 
returned  repeatedly,  I  may  briefly  declare,  to 
supply  her  with  this  information.  She  had  been 
immensely  taken,  the  more  she  thought  of  it,  with 
that  idea  of  mine  about  the  act  of  homage  :  it  had 
ended  by  filling  her  with  a  generous  rapture.  She 
positively  desired  to  do  something  sublime  for 
him,  though  indeed  I  could  see  that,  as  this  par 
ticular  flight  was  difficult,  she  appreciated  the  fact 
that  my  visits  kept  her  up.  I  had  it  on  my  con 
science  to  keep  her  up  ;  I  neglected  nothing  that 
would  contribute  to  it,  and  her  conception  of 
our  cherished  author's  independence  became  at  last 
as  fine  as  his  own  conception.  "  Read  him,  read 


THE    DEATH    OF    THE    LION  37 

him,"  I  constantly  repeated  ;  while,  seeking  him 
in  his  works,  she  represented  herself  as  convinced 
that,  according  to  my  assurance,  this  was  the 
system  that  had,  as  she  expressed  it,  weaned  her. 
We  read  him  together  when  I  could  find  time,  and 
the  generous  creature's  sacrifice  was  fed  by  our 
conversation.  There  were  twenty  selfish  women, 
about  whom  I  told  her,  who  stirred  her  with  a 
beautiful  rage.  Immediately  after  my  first  visit 
her  sister,  Mrs.  Milsom,  came  over  from  Paris,  and 
the  two  ladies  began  to  present,  as  they  called  it, 
their  letters.  I  thanked  our  stars  that  none  had 
been  presented  to  Mr.  Paraday.  They  received 
invitations  and  dined  out,  and  some  of  these  occa 
sions  enabled  Fanny  Hurter  to  perform,  for  con 
sistency's  sake,  touching  feats  of  submission. 
Nothing  indeed  would  now  have  induced  her  even 
to  look  at  the  object  of  her  admiration.  Once, 
hearing  his  name  announced  at  a  party,  she 
instantly  left  the  room  by  another  door  and  then 
straightway  quitted  the  house.  At  another  time, 
when  I  was  at  the  opera  with  them  (Mrs.  Milsom 
had  invited  me  to  their  box),  I  attempted  to  point 
Mr.  Paraday  out  to  her  in  the  stalls.  On  this  she 
asked  her  sister  to  change  places  with  her,  and 
while  that  lady  devoured  the  great  man  through  a 
powerful  glass,  presented,  all  the  rest  of  the  even 
ing,  her  inspired  back  to  the  house.  To  torment 
her  tenderly  I  pressed  the  glass  upon  her,  telling 
her  how  wonderfully  near  it  brought  our  friend's 
handsome  head.  By  way  of  answer  she  simply 


38  THE    DEATH    OF   THE   LION 

looked  at  me  in  charged  silence,  letting  me  see 
that  tears  had  gathered  in  her  eyes.  These  tears, 
I  may  remark,  produced  an  effect  on  me  of  which 
the  end  is  not  yet.  There  was  a  moment  when  I 
felt  it  my  duty  to  mention  them  to  Neil  Paraday; 
but  I  was  deterred  by  the  reflection  that  there  were 
questions  more  relevant  to  his  happiness. 

These  questions,  indeed,  by  the  end  of  the  season 
were  reduced  to  a  single  one — the  question  of  re 
constituting,  so  far  as  might  be  possible,  the  con 
ditions  under  which  he  had  produced  his  best  work. 
Such  conditions  could  never  all  come  back,  for  there 
was  a  new  one  that  took  up  too  much  place  ;  but 
some  perhaps  were  not  beyond  recall.  I  wanted 
above  all  things  to  see  him  sit  down  to  the  subject 
of  which,  on  my  making  his  acquaintance,  he  had 
read  me  that  admirable  sketch.  Something  told  me 
there  was  no  security  but  in  his  doing  so  before  the 
new  factor,  as  we  used  to  say  at  Mr.  Pinhorn's, 
should  render  the  problem  incalculable.  It  only 
half  reassured  me  that  the  sketch  itself  was  so 
copious  and  so  eloquent  that  even  at  the  worst  there 
would  be  the  making  of  a  small  but  complete  book, 
a  tiny  volume  which,  for  the  faithful,  might  well 
become  an  object  of  adoration.  There  would  even 
not  be  wanting  critics  to  declare,  I  foresaw,  that  the 
plan  was  a  thing  to  be  more  thankful  for  than  the 
structure  to  have  been  reared  on  it.  My  impatience 
for  the  structure,  none  the  less,  grew  and  grew  with 
the  interruptions.  He  had,  on  coming  up  to  town, 
begun  to  sit  for  his  portrait  to  a  young  painter,  Mr. 


THE    DEATH    OF   THE    LION  39 

Rumble,  whose  little  game,  as  we  also  used  to  say 
at  Mr.  Pinhorn's,  was  to  be  the  first  to  perch  on  the 
shoulders  of  renown.  Mr.  Rumble's  studio  was  a 
circus  in  which  the  man  of  the  hour,  and  still  more 
the  woman,  leaped  through  the  hoops  of  his  showy 
frames  almost  as  electrically  as  they  burst  into  tele 
grams  and  "  specials."  He  pranced  into  the  exhibi 
tions  on  their  back  ;  he  was  the  reporter  on  canvas, 
the  Vandyke  up  to  date,  and  there  was  one  roar 
ing  year  in  which  Mrs.  Bounder  and  Mrs.  Braby, 
Guy  Walsingham  and  Dora  Forbes,  proclaimed  in 
chorus  from  the  same  pictured  walls  that  no  one 
had  yet  got  ahead  of  him. 

Paraday  had  been  promptly  caught  and  saddled, 
accepting  with  characteristic  good-humor  his  con 
fidential  hint  that  to  figure  in  his  show  was  not 
so  much  a  consequence  as  a  cause  of  immortality. 
From  Mrs.  Wimbush  to  the  last  "  representative  " 
who  called  to  ascertain  his  twelve  favorite  dishes, 
it  was  the  same  ingenuous  assumption  that  he  would 
rejoice  in  the  repercussion.  There  were  moments 
when  I  fancied  I  might  have  had  more  patience  with 
them  if  they  had  not  been  so  fatally  benevolent.  I 
hated,  at  all  events,  Mr.  Rumble's  picture,  and  had 
my  bottled  resentment  ready  when,  later  on,  I  found 
my  distracted  friend  had  been  stuffed  by  Mrs.  Wim 
bush  into  the  mouth  of  another  cannon.  A  young 
artist  in  whom  she  was  intensely  interested,  and 
who  had  no  connection  with  Mr.  Rumble,  was 
to  show  how  far  he  could  make  him  go.  Poor 
Paraday,  in  return,  was  naturally  to  write  something 


40  THE    DEATH    OF    THE    LION 

somewhere  about  the  young  artist.  She  played  her 
victims  against  each  other  with  admirable  ingenuity, 
and  her  establishment  was  a  huge  machine  in  which 
the  tiniest  and  the  biggest  wheels  went  round  to  the 
same  treadle.  I  had  a  scene  with  her  in  which  I 
tried  to  express  that  the  function  of  such  a  man  was 
to  exercise  his  genius — not  to  serve  as  a  hoarding 
for  pictorial  posters.  The  people  I  was  perhaps 
angriest  with  were  the  editors  of  magazines  who 
had  introduced  what  they  called  new  features,  so 
aware  were  they  that  the  newest  feature  of  all  would 
be  to  make  him  grind  their  axes  by  contributing  his 
views  on  vital  topics  and  taking  part  in  the  periodi 
cal  prattle  about  the  future  of  fiction.  I  made  sure 
that  before  I  should  have  done  with  him  there 
would  scarcely  be  a  current  form  of  words  left  me 
to  be  sick  of  ;  but  meanwhile  I  could  make  surer 
still  of  my  animosity  to  bustling  ladies  for  whom  he 
drew  the  water  that  irrigated  their  social  flower 
beds. 

I  had  a  battle  with  Mrs.  Wimbush  over  the  artist 
she  protected,  and  another  over  the  question  of  a 
certain  week,  at  the  end  of  July,  that  Mr.  Paraday 
appeared  to  have  contracted  to  spend  with  her  in  the 
country.  I  protested  against  this  visit ;  I  intimated 
that  he  was  too  unwell  for  hospitality  without  a 
nuance,  for  caresses  without  imagination  ;  I  begged 
he  might  rather  take  the  time  in  some  restorative 
way.  A  sultry  air  of  promises,  of  ponderous  parties? 
hung  over  his  August,  and  he  would  greatly  profit 
by  the  interval  of  rest.  He  had  not  told  me  he  was 


THE   DEATH    OF   THE   LION  41 

ill  again — that  he  had  had  a  warning  ;  but  I  had 
not  needed  this,  and  I  found  his  reticence  his  worst 
symptom.  The  only  thing  he  said  to  me  was  that 
he  believed  a  comfortable  attack  of  something  or 
other  would  set  him  up  ;  it  would  put  out  of  the 
question  every  thing  but  the  exemptions  he  prized. 
I  am  afraid  I  shall  have  presented  him  as  a  martyr 
in  a  very  small  cause  if  I  fail  to  explain  that  he 
surrendered  himself  much  more  liberally  than  I  sur 
rendered  him.  He  filled  his  lungs,  for  the  most 
part,  with  the  comedy  of  his  queer  fate  ;  the  tragedy 
was  in  the  spectacles  through  which  I  chose  to  look. 
He  was  conscious  of  inconvenience,  and  above  all 
of  a  great  renouncement  ;  but  how  could  he  have 
heard  a  mere  dirge  in  the  bells  of  his  accession  ? 
The  sagacity  and  the  jealousy  were  mine,  and  his 
the  impressions  and  the  anecdotes.  Of  course,  as 
regards  Mrs.  Wimbush,  I  was  worsted  in  my  en 
counters,  for  was  not  the  state  of  his  health  the 
very  reason  for  his  coming  to  her  at  Prestidge  ? 
Wasn't  it  precisely  at  Prestidge  that  he  was  to  be 
coddled,  and  wasn't  the  dear  princess  coming  to 
help  her  to  coddle  him  ?  The  dear  princess,  now  on 
a  visit  to  England,  was  of  a  famous  foreign  house, 
and,  in  her  gilded  cage,  with  her  retinue  of  keepers 
and  feeders,  was  the  most  expensive  specimen  in 
the  good  lady's  collection.  I  don't  think  her  august 
presence  had  had  to  do  with  Paraday's  consenting 
to  go,  but  it  is  not  impossible  that  he  had  operated 
as  a  bait  to  the  illustrious  stranger.  The  party  had 
been  made  up  for  him,  Miu  Wimbush  averred,  and 


42  THE   DEATH    OF   THE    LION 

every  one  was  counting  on  it,  the  dear  princess 
most  of  all.  If  he  was  well  enough  he  was  to 
read  them  something  absolutely  fresh,  and  it  was 
on  that  particular  prospect  the  princess  had  set  her 
heart.  She  was  so  fond  of  genius  in  any  walk  of 
life,  and  she  was  so  used  to  it,  and  understood  it 
so  well ;  she  was  the  greatest  of  Mr.  Faraday's  ad 
mirers,  she  devoured  every  thing  he  wrote.  And 
then  he  read  like  an  angel.  Mrs.  Wimbush  reminded 
me  that  he  had  again  and  again  given  her,  Mrs. 
Wimbush,  the  privilege  of  listening  to  him. 

I  looked  at  her  a  moment.  "What  has  he 
read  to  you?"  I  crudely  enquired. 

For  a  moment  too  she  met  my  eyes,  and  for  the 
fraction  of  a  moment  she  hesitated  and  colored. 
"  Oh,  all  sorts  of  things  !  " 

I  wondered  whether  this  were  an  imperfect  recol 
lection  or  only  a  perfect  fib,  and  she  quite  under 
stood  my  unuttered  comment  on  her  perception  of 
such  things.  But  if  she  could  forget  Neil  Para- 
day's  beauties  she  could  of  course  forget  my  rude 
ness,  and  three  days  later  she  invited  me,  by  tele 
graph,  to  join  the  party  at  Prestidge.  This  time 
she  might  indeed  have  had  a  story  about  what  I 
had  given  up  to  be  near  the  master.  I  addressed 
from  that  fine  residence  several  communications 
to  a  young  lady  in  London,  a  young  lady  whom,  I 
confess,  I  quitted  with  reluctance,  and  whom  the 
reminder  of  what  she  herself  could  give  up  was 
required  to  make  me  quit  at  all.  It  adds  to  the 
gratitude  I  owe  her  on  other  grounds  that  she 


THE   DEATH    OF   THE    LION  43 

kindly  allows  me  to  transcribe  from  my  letters  a 
few  of  the  passages  in  which  that  hateful  sojourn 
is  candidly  commemorated. 


"  I  SUPPOSE  I  ought  to  enjoy  the  joke  of  what's 
going  on  here,"  I  wrote,  "  but  somehow  it  doesn't 
amuse  me.  Pessimism  on  the  contrary  possesses 
me  and  cynicism  solicits.  I  positively  feel  my  own 
flesh  sore  from  the  brass  nails  in  Neil  Faraday's 
social  harness.  The  house  is  full  of  people  who 
like  him,  as  they  mention,  awfully,  and  with  whom 
his  talent  for  talking  nonsense  has  prodigious 
success.  I  delight  in  his  nonsense  myself  ;  why  is 
it  therefore  that  I  grudge  these  happy  folk  their 
artless  satisfaction  ?  Mystery  of  the  human  heart  — 
abyss  of  the  critical  spirit  !  Mrs.  Wimbtish  thinks 
she  can  answer  that  question,  and,  as  my  want  of 
gayety  has  at  last  worn  out  her  patience,  she  has 
given  me  a  glimpse  of  her  shrewd  guess.  I  am 
made  restless  by  the  selfishness  of  the  insincere 
friend  —  I  want  to  monopolize  Paraday  in  order 
that  he  may  push  me  on.  To  be  intimate  with 
him  is  a  feather  in  my  cap  ;  it  gives  me  an  im 
portance  that  I  couldn't  naturally  pretend  to,  and 
I  seek  to  deprive  him  of  social  refreshment  because 
I  fear  that  meeting  more  disinterested  people  may 
enlighten  him  as  to  my  real  motive.  All  the  dis- 


44  THE   DEATH    OF   THE   LION 

interested  people  here  are  his  particular  admirers 
and  have  been  carefully  selected  as  such.  There 
is  supposed  to  be  a  copy  of  his  last  book  in  the 
house,  and  in  the  hall  I  come  upon  ladies,  in 
attitudes,  bending  gracefully  over  the  first  volume. 
I  discreetly  avert  my  eyes,  and  when  I  next  look 
round  the  precarious  joy  has  been  superseded  by 
the  book  of  life.  There  is  a  sociable  circle  or  a 
confidential  couple,  and  the  relinquished  volume 
lies  open  on  its  face,  as  if  it  had  been  dropped 
under  extreme  coercion.  Somebody  else  presently 
finds  it  and  transfers  it,  with  its  air  of  momentary 
desolation,  to  another  piece  of  furniture.  Every 
one  is  asking  every  one  about  it  all  day,  and  every 
one  is  telling  every  one  where  they  put  it  last. 
Pm  sure  it's  rather  smudgy  about  the  twentieth 
page.  I  have  a  strong  impression  too  that  the 
second  volume  is  lost — has  been  packed  in  the  bag 
of  some  departing  guest  ;  and  yet  every-body  has 
the  impression  that  somebody  else  has  read  to  the 
end.  You  see  therefore  that  the  beautiful  book 
plays  a  great  part  in  our  conversation.  Why 
should  I  take  the  occasion  of  such  distinguished 
honors  to  say  that  I  begin  to  see  deeper  into 
Gustave  Flaubert's  doleful  refrain  about  the  hatred 
of  literature  ?  I  refer  you  again  to  the  perverse 
constitution  of  man. 

"  The  princess  is  a  massive  lady  with  the  organi 
zation  of  an  athlete  and  the  confusion  of  tongues 
of  a  valet  de  place.  She  contrives  to  commit  her 
self  extraordinarily  little  in  a  great  many  languages, 


THE    DEATH    OF   THE    LION  45 

and  is  entertained  and  conversed  with  in  detach 
ments  and  relays,  like  an  institution  which  goes  on 
from  generation  to  generation  or  a  big  building 
contracted  for  under  a  forfeit.  She  can't  have  a 
personal  taste  any  more  than,  when  her  husband 
succeeds,  she  can  have  a  personal  crown,  and  her 
opinion  on  any  matter  is  rusty  and  heavy  and 
plain — made,  in  the  night  of  ages,  to  last  and  be 
transmitted.  I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  pay  some  one 
a  fee  for  my  glimpse  of  it.  She  has  been  told 
every  thing  in  the  world  and  has  never  perceived 
anything,  and  the  echoes  of  her  education  respond 
awfully  to  the  rash  footfall — I  mean  the  casual 
remark — in  the  cold  Valhalla  of  her  memory. 
Mrs.  Wimbush  delights  in  her  wit,  and  says  there 
is  nothing  so  charming  as  to  hear  Mr.  Paraday 
draw  it  out.  He  is  perpetually  detailed  for  this 
job,  and  he  tells  me  it  has  a  peculiarly  exhausting 
effeot.  Every  one  is  beginning — at  the  end  of  two 
days — to  sidle  obsequiously  away  from  her,  and 
Mrs.  Wimbush  pushes  him  again  and  again  into 
the  breach.  None  of  the  uses  I  have  yet  seen  him 
put  to  irritate  me  quite  so  much.  He  looks  very 
fagged,  and  has  at  last  confessed  to  me  that  his 
condition  makes  him  uneasy — has  even  promised 
me  that  he  will  go  straight  home  instead  of  re 
turning  to  his  final  engagements  in  town.  Last 
night  I  had  some  talk  with  him  about  going  to 
day,  cutting  his  visit  short ;  so  sure  am  I  that  he 
will  be  better  as  soon  as  he  is  shut  up  in  his  light 
house.  He  told  me  that  this  is  what  he  would 


46  THE    DEATH    OF   THE    LION 

like  to  do  ;  reminding  me,  however,  that  the  first 
lesson  of  his  greatness  has  been  precisely  that  he 
can't  do  what  he  likes.  Mrs.  Wimbush  would 
never  forgive  him  if  he  should  leave  her  before 
the  princess  has  received  the  last  hand.  When  I 
say  that  a  violent  rupture  with  our  hostess  would 
be  the  best  thing  in  the  world  for  him,  he  gives 
me  to  understand  that  if  his  reason  assents  to  the 
proposition  his  courage  hangs  wofully  back.  He 
makes  no  secret  of  being  mortally  afraid  of  her, 
and  when  I  ask  what  harm  she  can  do  him  that 
she  hasn't  already  done  he  simply  repeats:  'I'm 
afraid,  I'm  afraid  !  Don't  enquire  too  closely,'  he 
said  last  night ;  '  only  believe  that  I  feel  a  sort  of 
terror.  It's  strange,  when  she's  so  kind  !  At  any 
rate,  I  would  as  soon  overturn  that  piece  of  price 
less  Sevres  as  tell  her  that  I  must  go  before  my 
date.'  It  sounds  dreadfully  weak,  but  he  has 
some  reason,  and  he  pays  for  his  imagination, 
which  puts  him  (I  should  hate  it)  in  the  place  of 
others  and  makes  him  feel,  even  against  himself, 
their  feelings,  their  appetites,  their  motives.  It's 
indeed  inveterately  against  himself  that  he  makes 
his  imagination  act.  What  a  pity  he  has  such  a 
lot  of  it  !  He's  too  beastly  intelligent.  Besides, 
the  famous  reading  is  still  to  come  off,  and  it  has 
been  postponed  a  day,  to  allow  Guy  Walsing- 
ham  to  arrive.  It  appears  that  this  eminent 
lady  is  staying  at  a  house  a  few  miles  off,  which 
means  of  course  that  Mrs.  Wimbush  has  forci 
bly  annexed  her.  She's  to  come  over  in  a  day 


THE    DEATH    OF   THE   LION  47 

or   two — Mrs.  Wimbush   wants   her  to  hear  Mr. 
Paraday. 

"  To-day's  wet  and  cold,  and  several  of  the  com 
pany,  at  the  invitation  of  the  duke,  have  driven 
over  to  luncheon  at  Bigwood.  I  saw  poor  Paraday 
wedge  himself,  by  command,  into  the  little  supple 
mentary  seat  of  a  brougham  in  which  the  Princess 
and  our  hostess  were  already  ensconced.  If  the 
front  glass  isn't  open  on  his  dear  old  back,  perhaps 
he'll  survive.  Bigwood,  I  believe,  is  very  grand  and 
frigid,  all  marble  and  precedence,  and  I  wish  him 
well  out  of  the  adventure.  I  can't  tell  you  how 
much  more  and  more  your  attitude  to  him,  in  the 
midst  of  all  this,  shines  out  by  contrast.  I  never 
willingly  talk  to  these  people  about  him,  but  see 
what  a  comfort  I  find  it  to  scribble  to  you  !  I 
appreciate  it — it  keeps  me  warm ;  there  are  no 
fires  in  the  house.  Mrs.  Wimbush  goes  by  the 
calendar,  the  temperature  goes  by  the  weather,  the 
weather  goes  by  God  knows  what,  and  the  princess 
is  easily  heated.  I  have  nothing  but  my  acrimony 
to  warm  me,  and  have  been  out  under  an  umbrella 
to  restore  my  circulation.  Coming  in  an  hour  ago, 
I  found  Lady  Augusta  Minch  rummaging  about 
the  hall.  When  I  asked  her  what  she  was  looking 
for,  she  said  she  had  mislaid  something  that  Mr. 
Paraday  had  lent  her.  I  ascertained  in  a  moment 
that  the  article  in  question  is  a  manuscript,  and  I 
have  a  foreboding  that  it's  the  noble  morsel  he 
read  me  six  weeks  ago.  When  I  expressed  my 
surprise  that  he  should  have  bandied  about  any 


48  THE    DEATH    OF  THE   LION 

tiling  so  precious  (I  happen  to  know  it's  his  only 
copy — in  the  most  beautiful  hand  in  all  the  world) 
Lady  Augusta  confessed  to  me  that  she  had  not  had 
it  from  himself,  but  from  Mrs.  Wimbush,  who  had 
wished  to  give  her  a  glimpse  of  it  as  a  salve  for 
her  not  being  able  to  stay  and  hear  it  read. 

" '  Is  that  the  piece  he's  to  read,'  I  asked,  '  when 
Guy  Walsingham  arrives  ? ' 

"'It's  not  for  Guy  Walsingham  they're  waiting 
now,  it's  for  Dora  Forbes,'  Lady  Augusta  said. 
'She's  coming,  I  believe,  early  to-morrow.  Mean 
while,  Mrs.  Wimbush  has  found  out  about  him, 
and  is  actively  wiring  to  him.  She  says  he  also 
must  hear  him.' 

" '  You  bewilder  me  a  little,'  I  replied  ;  '  in  the 
age  we  live  in  one  gets  lost  among  the  genders 
and  the  pronouns.  The  clear  thing  is  that  Mrs. 
Wimbush  doesn't  guard  such  a  treasure  as  jealously 
as  she  might.' 

"'Poor  dear,  she  has  the  princess  to  guard! 
Mr.  Paraday  lent  her  the  manuscript  to  look  over.' 

"'Did  she  speak  as  if  it  were  the  morning 
paper  ? ' 

"  Lady  Augusta  stared — my  irony  was  lost  upon 
her.  '  She  didn't  have  time,  so  she  gave  me  a 
chance  first ;  because,  unfortunately,  I  go  to-mor 
row  to  Bigwood.' 

"  '  And  your  chance  has  only  proved  a  chance  to 
lose  it  ? ' 

"'I  haven't  lost  it.  I  renjember  now — it  was 
very  stupid  of  me  to  have  forgotten.  I  told  my 


THE    DEATH    OF   THE    LION  49 

maid  to  give  it  to  Lord  Dorimont,  or  at  least  to 
his  man.' 

"  '  And  Lord  Dorimont  went  away  directly  after 
luncheon.1 

" '  Of  course  he  gave  it  back  to  my  maid,  or  else 
his  man  did,'  said  Lady  Augusta.  *  I  dare  say  it's 
all  right.' 

"  The  conscience  of  these  people  is  like  a.summer 
sea.  They  haven't  time  to  'look  over'  a  priceless 
composition  ;  they've  only  time  to  kick  it  about 
the  house.  I  suggested  that  the  *  man,'  fired  with 
a  noble  emulation,  had  perhaps  kept  the  work  for 
his  own  perusal  ;  and  her  ladyship  wanted  to 
know  whether,  if  the  thing  didn't  turn  up  again 
in  time  for  the  session  appointed  by  our  hostess, 
the  author  wouldn't  have  something  else  to  read 
that  would  do  just  as  well.  Their  questions  are 
too  delightful !  I  declared  to  Lady  Augusta 
briefly  that  nothing  in  the  world  can  ever  do  so 
well  as  the  thing  that  does  best,  and  at  this  she 
looked  a  little  confused  and  scared.  But  I  added 
that  if  the  manuscript  had  gone  astray,  our  little 
circle  would  have  the  less  of  an  effort  of  attention 
to  make.  The  piece  in  question  was  very  long  ;  it 
would  keep  them  three  hours. 

"  '  Three  hours  !  Oh,  the  princess  will  get  up  ! ' 
said  Lady  Augusta. 

" '  I  thought  she  was  Mr.  Faraday's  greatest 
admirer.' 

" '  I  dare  say  she  is — she's  so  awfully  clever.    But 

what's  the  use  of  being  a  princess ' 

4 


50  THE    DEATH    OF   THE    LION 

"  '  If  you  can't  dissemble  your  love  ?  '  I  asked, 
as  Lady  Augusta  was  vague.  She  said,  at  any 
rate,  that  she  would  question  her  maid  ;  and  I  am 
hoping  that  when  I  go  down  to  dinner  I  shall  find 
the  manuscript  has  been  recovered." 


"!T  has  not  been  recovered,"  I  wrote  early  the 
next  day,  "  and  I  am  moreover  much  troubled 
about  our  friend.  He  came  back  from  Bigwood 
with  a  chill,  and,  being  allowed  to  have  a  fire  in  his 
room,  lay  down  a  while  before  dinner.  I  tried  to 
send  him  to  bed,  and  indeed  thought  I  had  put  him 
in  the  way  of  it  ;  but  after  I  had  gone  to  dress 
Mrs.  Wimbush  came  up  to  see  him,  with  the  in 
evitable  result  that  when  I  returned  I  found  him 
under  arms  and  flushed  and  feverish,  though  dec 
orated  with  the  rare  flower  she  had  brought  him 
for  his  buttonhole.  He  came  down  to  dinner,  but 
Lady  Augusta  Minch  was  very  shy  of  him.  To 
day  he's  in  great  pain,  and  the  advent  of  ces  dames 
— I  mean  of  Guy  Walsingham  and  Dora  Forbes — 
doesn't  at  all  console  me.  It  does  Mrs.  Wimbush, 
however,  for  she  has  consented  to  his  remaining  in 
bed,  so  that  he  may  be  all  right  to-morrow  for  the 
listening  circle.  Guy  Walsingham  is  already  on 
the  scene,  and  the  doctor  for  Paraday  also  arrived 
early.  I  haven't  yet  seen  the  author  of  '  Obses- 


THE   DEATH    OF   THE   LION.  51 

sions,'  but  of  course  I've  had  a  moment  by  myself 
with  the  doctor.  I  tried  to  get  him  to  say  that 
our  invalid  must  go  straight  home — I  mean  to-mor 
row  or  next  day  ;  but  he  quite  refuses  to  talk 
about  the  future.  Absolute  quiet  and  warmth  and 
the  regular  administration  of  an  important  remedy 
are  the  points  he  mainly  insists  on.  He  returns 
this  afternoon,  and  I'm  to  be  back  to  see  the  patient 
at  one  o'clock,  when  he  next  takes  his  medicine. 
It  consoles  me  a  little  that  he  certainly  won't  be  able 
to  read — an  exertion  he  was  already  more  than  unfit 
for.  Lady  Augusta  went  off  after  breakfast,  assur 
ing  me  that  her  first  care  would  be  to  follow  up  the 
lost  manuscript.  I  can  see  she  thinks  me  a  shock 
ing  busybody  and  doesn't  understand  my  alarm, 
but  she  will  do  what  she  can,  for  she's  a  good- 
natured  woman.  '  So  are  they  all  honorable  men.' 
That  was  precisely  what  made  her  give  the  thing 
to  Lord  Dorimont  and  made  Lord  Dorimont  bag 
it.  What  use  he  has  for  it,  God  only  knows !  I 
have  the  worst  forebodings,  but  somehow  I'm 
strangely  without  passion — desperately  calm.  As 
I  consider  the  unconscious,  the  well-meaning  rav 
ages  of  our  appreciative  circle,  I  bow  my  head  in 
submission  to  some  great  natural,  some  universal 
accident ;  I'm  rendered  almost  indifferent,  in  fact 
quite  gay  (ha-ha  !)  by  the  sense  of  immitigable 
fate.  Lady  Augusta  promises  me  to  trace  the 
precious  object  and  let  me  have  it,  through  the 
post,  by  the  time  Paraday  is  well  enough  to  play 
his  part  with  it.  The  last  evidence  is  that  her 


52  THE    DEATH    OP   THE    LION 

maid  did  give  it  to  his  lordship's  valet.  One 
would  think  it  was  some  thrilling  number  of  The 
Family  Budget.  Mrs.  Wimbush,  who  is  aware  of 
the  accident,  is  much  less  agitated  by  it  than  she 
would  doubtless  be  were  she  not  for  the  hour 
inevitably  engrossed  with  Guy  Walsingham." 

Later  in  the  day  I  informed  my  correspondent, 
for  whom  indeed  I  kept  a  sort  of  diary  of  the  sit 
uation,  that  I  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  this 
celebrity,  and  that  she  was  a  pretty  little  girl  who 
wore  her  hair  in  what  used  to  be  called  a  crop. 
She  looked  so  juvenile  and  so  innocent  that  if,  as 
Mr.  Morrow  had  announced,  she  was  resigned  to 
the  larger  latitude, her  superiority  to  prejudice  must 
have  come  to  her  early.  I  spent  most  of  the  day 
hovering  about  Neil  Faraday's  room,  but  it  was 
communicated  tome  from  below  that  Guy  Walsing 
ham,  at  Prestidge,  was  a  success.  Toward  evening 
I  became  conscious  somehow  that  her  superiority 
was  contagious,  and  by  the  time  the  company 
separated  for  the  night  I  was  sure  that  the  larger 
latitude  had  been  generally  accepted.  I  thought 
of  Dora  Forbes,  and  felt  that  he  had  no  time  to 
lose.  Before  dinner  I  received  a  telegram  from 
Lady  Augusta  Minch.  "  Lord  Dorimont  thinks 
he  must  have  left  bundle  in  train  —enquire."  How 
could  I  enquire — if  I  was  to  take  the  word  as 
command  ?  I  was  too  worried,  and  now  too  alarmed 
about  Neil  Faraday.  The  doctor  came  back,  and 
it  was  an  immense  satisfaction  to  me  to  feel  that 


THE    DEATH    OF    THE    LION  53 

he  was  wise  and  interested.  He  was  proud  of 
being  called  to  so  distinguished  a  patient,  but  he 
admitted  to  me  that  night  that  my  friend  was 
gravely  ill.  It  was  really  a  relapse,  a  recrudes 
cence  of  his  old  malady.  There  could  be  no 
question  of  moving  him  :  we  must  at  any  rate 
see  first,  on  the  spot,  what  turn  his  condition  would 
take.  Meanwhile,  on  the  morrow,  he  was  to  have 
a  nurse.  On  the  morrow  the  dear  man  was  easier, 
and  my  spirits  rose  to  such  cheerfulness  that  I 
could  almost  laugh  over  Lady  Augusta's  second 
telegram  :  "  Lord  Dorimont's  servant  been  to 
station — nothing  found.  Push  enquiries."  I  did 
laugh,  I  am  sure,  as  I  remembered  this  to  be  the 
mystic  scroll  I  had  scarcely  allowed  poor  Mr. 
Morrow  to  point  his  umbrella  at.  Fool  that  I 
had  been  !  The  thirty-seven  influential  journals 
wouldn't  have  destroyed  it,  they  would  only  have 
printed  it.  Of  course  I  said  nothing  to  Paraday. 

When  the  nurse  arrived  she  turned  me  out  of 
the  room,  on  which  I  went  down  stairs.  I  should 
premise  that  at  breakfast  the  news  that  our  brilliant 
friend  was  doing  well  excited  universal  compla 
cency,  and  the  princess  graciously  remarked  that 
he  was  only  to  be  commiserated  for  missing  the 
society  of  Miss  Collop.  Mrs.  Wimbush,  whose 
social  gift  never  shone  brighter  than  in  the  dry 
decorum  with  which  she  accepted  this  fizzle  in  her 
fireworks,  mentioned  to  me  that  Guy  Walsingham 
had  made  a  very  favorable  impression  on  her  Im 
perial  Highness.  Indeed  I  think  every  one  did  so, 


54  THE   DEATH    OF   THE   LION 

and  that,  like  the  money-market  or  the  national 
honor,  her  Imperial  Highness  was  constitutionally 
sensitive.  There  was  a  certain  gladness,  a  per 
ceptible  bustle  in  the  air,  however,  which  I 
thought  slightly  anomalous  in  a  house  where  a 
great  author  lay  critically  ill.  "  Leroy  est  mort — 
vive  le  roy  !  "  I  was  reminded  that  another  great 
author  had  already  stepped  into  his  shoes.  When 
I  came  down  again  after  the  nurse  had  taken  pos 
session  I  found  a  strange  gentleman  hanging 
about  the  hall  and  pacing  to  and  fro  by  the  closed 
door  of  the  drawing-room.  This  personage  was 
florid  and  bald  ;  he  had  a  big  red  mustache  and 
wore  showy  knickerbockers — characteristics  all 
that  fitted  into  my  conception  of  the  identity  of 
Dora  Forbes.  In  a  moment  I  saw  what  had 
happened  :  the  author  of  "  The  Other  Way 
Round"  had  just  alighted  at  the  portals  of  Pres- 
tidge,  but  had  suffered  a  scruple  to  restrain  him 
from  penetrating  further.  I  recognized  his 
scruple  when,  pausing  to  listen  at  his  gesture  of 
caution,  I  heard  a  shrill  voice  lifted  in  a  sort  of 
rhythmic,  uncanny  chant.  The  famous  reading 
had  begun,  only  it  was  the  author  of  "  Obses 
sions  "  who  now  furnished  the  sacrifice.  The  new 
visitor  whispered  to  me  that  he  judged  something 
was  going  on  that  he  oughtn't  to  interrupt. 

"  Miss  Collop  arrived  last  night,"  I  smiled,  "  and 
the  princess  has  a  thirst  for  the  inedit." 

Dora  Forbes  lifted  his  bushy  brows,  "Miss 
Collop?" 


THE    DEATH    OF   THE    LION  55 

"  Guy  Walsingham,  your  distinguished  confrere 
— or  shall  I  say  your  formidable  rival  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  "  growled  Dora  Forbes.  Then  he  added  : 
"  Shall  I  spoil  it,  if  I  go  in?" 

"  I  should  think  nothing  could  spoil  it !  "  I 
ambiguously  laughed. 

Dora  Forbes  evidently  felt  the  dilemma  ;  he 
gave  an  irritated  crook  to  his  mustache.  "  Shall 
I  go  in  ?  "  he  presently  asked. 

We  looked  at  each  other  hard  a  moment ;  then 
I  expressed  something  bitter  that  was  in  me,  ex 
pressed  it  in  an  infernal  "  Do  !  "  After  this  I  got 
out  into  the  air,  but  not  so  fast  as  not  to  hear, 
when  the  door  of  the  drawing-room  opened,  the 
disconcerted  drop  of  Miss  Collop's  public  manner  : 
she  must  have  been  in  the  midst  of  the  larger  lati 
tude.  Producing  with  extreme  rapidity,  Guy 
Walsingham  has  just  published  a  work  in  which 
amiable  people  who  are  not  initiated  have  been 
pained  to  see  the  genius  of  a  sister-novelist  held 
up  to  unmistakable  ridicule  ;  so  fresh  an  exhibi 
tion  does  it  seem  to  them  of  the  dreadful  way 
men  have  always  treated  women.  Dora  Forbes, 
it  is  true,  at  the  present  hour,  is  immensely 
pushed  by  Mrs.  Wimbush,  and  has  sat  for  his  por 
trait  to  the  young  artist  she  protects,  sat  for  it 
not  only  in  oils,  but  in  monumental  alabaster. 

What  happened  at  Prestidge  later  in  the  day 
is  of  course  contemporary  history,  If  the  inter 
ruption  I  had  whimsically  sanctioned  was  almost 
a  scandal,  what  is  to  be  said  of  that  general  dis- 


56  THE    DEATH    OP   THE   LION 

persal  of  the  company  which,  under  the  doctor's 
rule,  began  to  take  place  in  the  evening  !  His  rule 
was  soothing  to  behold,  small  comfort  as  I  was  to 
have  at  the  end.  He  decreed  in  the  interest  of 
his  patient  an  absolutely  soundless  house  and  a 
consequent  break-up  of  the  party.  Little  country 
practitioner  as  he  was,  he  literally  packed  off 
the  princess.  She  departed  as  promptly  as  if  a 
revolution  had  broken  out,  and  Guy  Walsingham 
emigrated  with  her.  I  was  kindly  permitted  to 
remain,  and  this  was  not  denied  even  to  Mrs. 
Wimbush.  The  privilege  was  withheld  indeed 
from  Dora  Forbes  ;  so  Mrs.  Wimbnsh  kept  her 
latest  capture  temporarily  concealed.  This  was  so 
little,  however,  her  usual  wa}^  of  dealing  with  her 
eminent  friends  that  a  couple  of  days  of  it  ex 
hausted  her  patience,  and  she  went  up  to  town  with 
him  in  great  publicity.  The  sudden  turn  for  the 
worse  her  afflicted  guest  had,  after  a  brief  improve 
ment,  taken  on  the  third  night  raised  an  obstacle 
to  her  seeing  him  before  her  retreat ;  a  fortunate 
circumstance  doubtless,  for  she  was  fundamen 
tally  disappointed  in  him.  This  was  not  the  kind 
of  performance  for  which  she  had  invited  him  to 
Prestidge,  or  invited  the  princess.  Let  me  hasten 
to  add  that  none  of  the  generous  acts  which  have 
characterized  her  patronage  of  intellectual  and  other 
merit  have  done  so  much  for  her  reputation  as  her 
lending  Neil  Paraday  the  most  beautiful  of  her 
numerous  homes  to  die  in.  He  took  advantage  to 
the  utmost  of  the  singular  favor.  Day  by  day  I 


THE    DEATH    OF   THE    LION  57 

saw  him  sink,  and  I  roamed  alone  about  the  empty 
terraces  and  gardens.  His  wife  never  came  near 
him,  but  I  scarcely  noticed  it ;  as  I  paced  there  with 
rage  in  my  heart  I  was  too  full  of  another  wrong. 
In  the  event  of  his  death  it  would  fall  to  me  perhaps 
to  bring  out  in  some  charming  form,  with  notes, 
with  the  tenderest  editorial  care,  that  precious 
heritage  of  his  written  project.  But  where  was 
the  precious  heritage,  and  were  both  the  author 
and  the  book  to  be  snatched  from  us  ?  Lady 
Augusta  wrote  me  that  she  had  done  all  she  could, 
and  that  poor  Lord  Dorirnont,  who  had  really 
been  worried  to  death,  was  extremely  sorry.  I 
couldn't  have  the  matter  out  with  Mrs.  Wimbush, 
for  I  didn't  want  to  be  taunted  by  her  with  desir 
ing  to  aggrandize  myself  by  a  public  connection 
with  Mr.  Faraday's  sweepings.  She  had  signified 
her  willingness  to  meet  the  expense  of  all  advertis 
ing,  as  indeed  she  was  always  ready  to  do.  The 
last  night  of  the  horrible  series,  the  night  before 
he  died,  I  put  my  ear  closer  to  his  pillow. 

"That  thing  I  read  you  that  morning,  you 
know." 

"  In  your  garden  that  dreadful  day  ?     Yes  !  " 

"  Won't  it  do  as  it  is  !  " 

"  It  would  have  been  a  glorious  book." 

"  It  is  a  glorious  book,"  Neil  Paraday  murmured. 
"  Print  it  as  it  stands — beautifully." 

"  Beautifully  !  "  I  passionately  promised. 

It  may  be  imagined  whether,  now  that  he  is 
gone,  the  promise  seems  to  me  less  sacred.  I  am 


58  THE   DEATH    OF   THE   LION 

convinced  that  if  such  pages  had  appeared  in  his 
life-time  the  Abbey  would  hold  him  to-day.  I  have 
kept  the  advertising  in  my  own  hands,  but  the 
manuscript  has  not  been  recovered.  It  is  impos 
sible,  and  at  any  rate  intolerable,  to  suppose  it  can 
have  been  wantonly  destroyed.  Perhaps  some 
hazard  of  a  blind  hand,  some  brutal  ignorance,  has 
lighted  kitchen  fires  with  it.  Every  stupid  and 
hideous  accident  haunts  my  meditations.  My  un- 
discourageable  search  for  the  lost  treasure  would 
make  a  long  chapter.  Fortunately,  I  have  a  devoted 
associate  in  the  person  of  a  young  lady  who  has 
every  day  a  fresh  indignation  and  a  fresh  idea, 
and  who  maintains  with  intensity  that  the  prize 
will  still  turn  up.  Sometimes  I  believe  her,  but  I 
have  quite  ceased  to  believe  myself.  The  only 
thing  for  us,  at  all  events,  is  to  go  on  seeking  and 
hoping  together  ;  and  we  should  be  closely  united 
by  this  firm  tie  even  were  we  not  at  present  by 
another. 


THE   COXON  FUND 


"  THEY'VE  got  him  for  life  1  "  I  said  to  myself 
that  evening  on  my  way  back  to  the  station  ;  but 
later,  alone  in  the  compartment  (from  Wimbledon 
to  Waterloo,  before  the  glory  of  the  District 
Railway),  I  amended  this  declaration  in  the  light 
of  the  sense  that  my  friends  would  probably  after 
all  not  enjoy  a  monopoly  of  Mr.  Saltram.  I  won't 
pretend  to  have  taken  his  vast  measure  on  that 
first  occasion,  but  I  think  I  had  achieved  a  glimpse 
of  what  the  privilege  of  his  acquaintance  might 
mean  for  many  persons  in  the  Avay  of  charges  ac 
cepted.  He  had  been  a  great  experience,  and  it 
was  this,  perhaps,  that  had  put  me  into  the  frame 
of  foreseeing  how  we  should  all,  sooner  or  later, 
have  the  honor  of  dealing  with  him  as  a  whole. 
Whatever  impression  I  then  received  of  the  amount 
of  this  total,  I  had  a  full  enough  vision  of  the 
patience  of  the  Mullvilles.  He  was  staying  with 
them  all  the  winter  :  Adelaide  dropped  it  in  a  tone 
which  drew  the  sting  from  the  temporary.  These 
excellent  people  might  indeed  have  been  content 
to  give  the  circle  of  hospitality  a  diameter  of  six 
months  ;  but  if  they  didn't  say  that  he  was  stay- 


60  THE    COXON    FUND 

ing  for  the  summer  as  well,  it  was  only  because 
this  was  more  than  they  ventured  to  hope.  I  re 
member  that  at  dinner  that  evening  he  wore  slip 
pers,  new  and  predominantly  purple,  of  some  queer 
carpet-stuff  ;  but  the  Mulvilles  were  still  in  the 
stage  of  supposing  that  he  might  be  snatched  from 
them  by  higher  bidders.  At  a  later  time  they 
grew,  poor  dears,  to  fear  no  snatching  ;  but  theirs 
was  a  fidelity  which  needed  no  help  from  compe 
tition  to  make  them  proud.  Wonderful  indeed  as, 
when  all  was  said,  you  inevitably  pronounced  Frank 
Saltram,  it  was  not  to  be  overlooked  that  the  Kent 
Mulvilles  were  in  their  way  still  more  extraordi 
nary  :  as  striking  an  instance  as  could  easily  be 
encountered  of  the  familiar  truth  that  remarkable 
men  find  remarkable  conveniences. 

They  had  sent  for  me  from  Wimbledon  to  come 
out  and  dine,  and  there  had  been  an  implication  in 
Adelaide's  note  (judged  by  her  notes  alone  she 
might  have  been  thought  silly)  that  it  was  a  case 
in  which  something  momentous  was  to  be  deter 
mined  or  done.  I  had  never  known  them  not  to 
be  in  a  "  state  "  about  somebody,  and  I  dare  say  I 
tried  to  be  droll  on  this  point  in  accepting  their  invi 
tation.  On  finding  myself  in  the  presence  of  their 
latest  revelation  I  had  not  at  first  felt  irreverence 
droop  ;  and,  thank  Heaven,  I  have  never  been  abso 
lutely  deprived  of  that  alternative  in  Mr.  Saltram's 
company.  I  saw,  however  (I  hasten  to  declare  it), 
that,  compared  to  this  specimen,  their  other  phoe 
nixes  had  been  birds  of  inconsiderable  feather,  and 


THE    COXON    FUND  61 

I  afterward  took  credit  to  myself  for  not  having, 
even  in  primal  bewilderments,  made  a  mistake 
about  tbe  essence  of  the  man.  He  had  an  incom 
parable  gift ;  I  never  was  blind  to  it — it  dazzles 
me  at  present.  It  dazzles  me  perhaps  even  more 
in  remembrance  than  in  fact,  for  I'm  not  unaware 
that  for  a  subject  so  magnificent  the  imagination 
goes  to  some  expense,  inserting  a  jewel  here  and 
there  or  giving  a  twist  to  a  plume.  How  the  art 
of  portraiture  would  rejoice  in  this  figure  if  the  art 
of  portraiture  had  only  the  canvas  !  Nature,  in 
truth,  had  largely  rounded  it,  and  if  Memory,  hov 
ering  about  it,  sometimes  holds  her  breath,  this  is 
because  the  voice  that  comes  back  was  really 
golden. 

Though  the  great  man  was  an  inmate  and  didn't 
dress,  he  kept  dinner  on  this  occasion  waiting,  and 
the  first  words  he  uttered  on  coming  into  the  room 
were  a  triumphant  announcement  to  Mulville  that 
he  had  found  out  something.  Not  catching  the 
allusion,  and  gaping  doubtless  a  little  at  his  face,  I 
privately  asked  Adelaide  what  he  had  found  out. 
I  shall  never  forget  the  look  she  gave  me  as  she 
replied,  "  Every  thing  !  "  She  really  believed  it. 
At  that  moment,  at  any  rate,  he  had  found  out 
that  the  mercy  of  the  Mulvilles  was  infinite.  He 
had  previously  of  course  discovered,  as  I  had  my 
self  for  that  matter,  that  their  dinners  were  soignes. 
Let  me  not  indeed,  in  saying  this,  neglect  to 
declare  that  I  shall  falsify  my  counterfeit  if  I  seem 
to  hint  that  there  was  in  his  nature  any  ounce  of 


62  THE    COXON   FUND 

calculation.  He  took  whatever  came,  but  he  never 
plotted  for  it,  and  no  man  who  was  so  much  of  an 
absorbent  can  ever  have  been  so  little  of  a  parasite. 
He  had  a  system  of  the  universe,  but  he  had  no 
system  of  sponging — that  was  quite  hand-to-mouth. 
He  had  fine,  gross,  easy  senses,  but  it  was  not  his 
good-natured  appetite  that  wrought  confusion.  If 
he  had  loved  us  for  our  dinners  we  could  have 
paid  with  our  dinners,  and  it  would  have  been  a 
great  economy  of  finer  matter.  I  make  free  in 
these  connections  with  the  plural  possessive  because, 
if  I  was  never  able  to  do  what  the  Mulvilles  did, 
and  people  with  still  bigger  houses  and  simpler 
charities,  I  met,  first  and  last,  every  demand  of 
reflection,  of  emotion — particularly,  perhaps,  those 
of  gratitude  and  of  resentment.  No  one,  I  think, 
paid  the  tribute  of  giving  him  up  so  often,  and,  if 
it's  rendering  honor  to  borrow  wisdom,  I  have  a 
right  to  talk  of  my  sacrifices.  He  yielded  lessons 
as  the  sea  yields  fish — I  lived  for  a  while  on  this 
diet.  Sometimes  it  almost  appeared  tome  that  his 
massive,  monstrous  failure — if  failure,  after  all,  it 
was— had  been  intended  for  my  private  recreation. 
He  fairly  pampered  my  curiosity  ;  but  the  history 
of  that  experience  would  take  me  too  far.  This  is 
not  the  large  canvas  I  just  now  spoke  of,  and  I 
would  not  have  approached  him  with  my  present 
hand  had  it  been  a  question  of  all  the  features. 
Frank  Saltram's  features,  for  artistic  purposes,  are 
verily  the  anecdotes  that  are  to  be  gathered. 
Their  name  is  legion,  and  this  is  only  one,  of  which 


THE    COXON    FUND  63 

the  interest  is  that  it  concerns  even  more  closely 
several  other  persons.  Such  episodes,  as  one  looks 
back,  are  the  little  dramas  that  made  up  the 
innumerable  facets  of  the  big  drama — which  is  yet 
to  be  reported. 


II 

IT  is  furthermore  remarkable  that  though  the 
two  stories  are  distinct — my  own,  as  it  were,  and 
this  other — they  equally  began,  in  a  manner,  the 
first  night  of  my  acquaintance  with  Frank  Saltram, 
the  night  I  came  back  from  Wimbledon  so  agitated 
with  a  new  sense  of  life  that,  in  London,  for  the 
very  thrill  of  it,  I  could  only  walk  home.  Walk 
ing  and  swinging  my  stick,  I  overtook,  at  Buck 
ingham  Gate,  George  Gravener,  and  George  Grave- 
ner's  story  may  be  said  to  have  begun  with  my 
making  him,  as  our  paths  la}^  together,  come  home 
with  me  for  a  talk.  I  duly  remember,  let  me 
parenthesize,  that  it  was  still  more  that  of  another 
person,  and  also  that  several  years  were  to  elapse 
before  it  was  to  extend  to  a  second  chapter.  I  had 
much  to  say  to  him,  none  the  less,  about  my  visit 
to  the  Mulvilles,  whom  he  more  indifferently  knew, 
and  I  was  at  any  rate  so  amusing  that,  for  long 
afterward,  he  never  encountered  me  without  asking 
for  news  of  the  old  man  of  the  sea.  I  hadn't  said 
Mr.  Saltram  was  old,  and  it  was  to  be  seen  that  he 
was  of  an  age  to  outweather  George  Gravener.  I 


64  THE    COXON   FUND 

had  at  that  time  a  lodging  in  Ebury  Street,  and 
Gravener  was  staying  at  his  brother's  empty  house 
in  Eaton  Square.  At  Cambridge,  five  years  before, 
even  in  our  devastating  set,  his  intellectual  power 
had  seemed  to  me  almost  awful.  Some  one  had 
once  asked  me  privately,  with  blanched  cheeks, 
what  it  was  then  that,  after  all,  such  a  mind  as  that 
left  standing.  "  It  leaves  itself  !  "  I  could  recol 
lect  devoutly  replying.  I  could  smile  at  present  at 
this  reminiscence,  for  even  before  we  got  to  Ebury 
Street  I  was  struck  with  the  fact  that,  save  in  the 
sense  of  being  well  set  up  on  his  legs,  George 
Gravener  had  actually  ceased  to  tower.  The  uni 
verse  he  laid  low  had  somehow  bloomed  again — 
the  usual  eminences  were  visible.  I  wondered 
whether  he  had  lost  his  humor,  or  only,  dreadful 
thought  !  had  never  had  any — not  even  when  I  had 
fancied  him  most  Aristophanesque.  What  was  the 
need  of  appealing  to  laughter,  however,  I  could 
enviously  enquire,  where  you  might  appeal  so  con 
fidently  to  measurement  ?  Mr.  Saltram's  queer 
figure,  his  thick  nose  and  hanging  lip,  were  fresh 
to  me ;  in  the  light  of  my  old  friend's  fine  cold 
symmetry  they  presented  mere  success  in  amusing 
as  the  refuge  of  conscious  ugliness.  Already,  at 
hungry  twenty-six,  Gravener  looked  as  blank  and 
parliamentary  as  if  he  were  fifty  and  popular.  In 
my  scrap  of  a  residence  (he  had  a  worldling's  eye 
for  its  futile  conveniencies,  but  never  a  comrade's 
joke)  I  sounded  Frank  Saltram  in  his  ears  ,-  a  cir 
cumstance  I  mention  in  order  to  note  that  even 


THE    COXON   FUND  65 

then  I  was  surprised  at  liis  impatience  of  my 
enlivenment.  As  lie  had  never  before  heard  of  the 
personage,  it  took  indeed  the  form  of  impatience 
of  the  preposterous  Mulvilles,  his  relation  to  whom, 
like  mine,  had  had  its  origin  in  an  early,  a  childish 
intimacy  with  the  young  Adelaide,  the  fruit  of 
multiplied  ties  in  the  previous  generation.  When 
she  married  Kent  Mulville,  who  was  older  than 
Gravener  and  I  and  much  more  amiable,  I  gained 
a  friend,  but  Gravener  practically  lost  one.  We 
were  affected  in  different  ways  by  the  form  taken 
by  what  he  called  their  deplorable  social  action — 
the  form  (the  term  was  also  his)  of  nasty,  second- 
rate  gush.  I  may  have  held  in  my  for  interieur 
that  the  good  people  at  Wimbledon  were  beautiful 
fools,  but  when  he  sniffed  at  them  I  couldn't  help 
taking  the  opposite  line,  for  I  already  felt  that, 
even  should  we  happen  to  agree,  it  would  alwa}7s 
be  for  reasons  that  differed.  It  came  home  to  me 
that  he  was  admirably  British  as,  without  so  much 
as  a  sociable  sneer  at  my  bookbinder,  he  turned 
away  from  the  serried  rows  of  my  little  French 
library. 

"  Of  course  I've  never  seen  the  fellow,  but  it's 
clear  enough  he's  a  humbug." 

"  Clear  *  enough  '  is  just  what  it  isn't,"  I  replied  ; 
"  if  it  only  were  !  "  That  ejaculation  on  my  part 
must  have  been  the  beginning  of  what  was  to  be 
later  a  long  ache  for  final,  frivolous  rest.  Gravener 
was  profound  enough  to  remark  after  a  moment 
that  in  the  first  place  he  couldn't  be  any  thing  but 
5 


66  THE    COXON    FUND 

a  dissenter,  and  when  I  answered  that  the  very  note 
of  his  fascination  was  his  extraordinary  speculative 
breadth,  my  friend  retorted  that  there  was  no  cad 
like  your  cultivated  cad,  and  that  I  might  depend 
upon  discovering,  since  I  had  had  the  levity  not 
already  to  have  enquired,  that  my  shining  light 
proceeded,  a  generation  back,  from  a  Methodist 
cheesemonger.  I  confess  I  was  struck  with  his 
insistence,  and  I  said,  after  reflection  :  "  It  may  be 
— I  admit  it  may  be  ;  but  why  on  earth  are  you  so 
sure?" — asking  the  question  mainly  to  lay  him 
the  trap  of  saying  that  it  was  because  the  poor 
man  didn't  dress  for  dinner.  He  took  an  instant 
to  circumvent  my  trap  and  came  blandly  out  the 
other  side. 

"  Because  the  Kent  Mulvilles  have  invented  him. 
They've  an  infallible  hand  for  frauds.  All  their 
geese  are  swans.  They  were  born  to  be  duped, 
they  like  it,  they  cry  for  it,  they  don't  know  any 
thing  from  any  thing,  and  they  disgust  one  (luckily 
perhaps !)  with  Christian  charity."  His  vehe 
mence  was  doubtless  an  accident,  but  it  might  have 
been  a  strange  foreknowledge.  I  forget  what  pro 
test  I  dropped  ;  it  was  at  any  rate  something 
which  led  him  to  go  on  after  a  moment :  "I  only 
ask  one  thing — it's  perfectly  simple.  Is  a  man,  in 
a  given  case,  a  real  gentleman  ?  " 

"  A  real  gentleman,  my  dear  fellow — that's  so 
soon  said  !  " 

"Not  so  soon  when  he  isn't!  If  they've  got 
hold  of  one  this  time  he  must  be  a  great  rascal !  " 


THE    COXON    FUND  67 

"  I  might  feel  injured,"  I  answered,  "  if  I  didn't 
reflect  that  they  don't  rave  about  me." 

"Don't  be  too  sure  !  I'll  grant  that  he's  a 
gentleman,"  Gravener  presently  added,  "  if  you'll 
admit  that  he's  a  scamp." 

"  I  don't  know  which  to  admire  most,  your  logic 
or  your  benevolence." 

My  friend  colored  at  this,  but  he  didn't  change 
the  subject.  "  Where  did  they  pick  him  up  ?  " 

"I  think  they  were  struck  with  something  he 
had  published." 

"  I  can  fancy  the  dreary  thing  ! " 

"  I  believe  they  found  out  he  had  all  sorts  of 
worries  and  difficulties." 

"  That,  of  course,  was  not  to  be  endured,  and 
they  jumped  at  the  privilege  of  paying  his  debts  !  " 

I  replied  that  I  knew  nothing  about  his  debts, 
and  I  reminded  my  visitor  that  though  the  dear 
Mulvilles  were  angels  they  were  neither  idiots  nor 
millionnaires.  What  they  mainly  aimed  at  Avas 
reuniting  Mr.  Saltram  to  his  wife. 

"I  was  expecting  to  hear  that  he  has  basely 
abandoned  her,"  Gravener  went  on,  at  this,  "  and 
I'm  too  glad  3^011  don't  disappoint  me." 

I  tried  to  recall  exactly  what  Mrs.  Mulville  had 
told  me.  "  He  didn't  leave  her — no.  It's  she  who 
has  left  him." 

"Left  him  to  us?"  Gravener  asked.  "The 
monster — many  thanks  !  I  decline  to  take  him." 

"  You'll  hear  more  about  him  in  spite  of  your 
self.  I  can't,  no,  I  really  can't  resist  the  impres- 


68  THE    COXON    FUND 

sion  that  he's  a  big  man."  I  was  already  learning 
— to  ray  shame  perhaps  be  it  said — just  the  tone 
that  my  old  friend  least  liked. 

"  It's  doubtless  only  a  trifle,"  he  returned,  "  but 
you  haven't  happened  to  mention  what  his  reputa 
tion's  to  rest  on." 

"  Why,  on  what  I  began  by  boring  you  with — 
his  extraordinary  mind." 

"  As  exhibited  in  his  writings  ?  " 

"  Possibly  in  his  writings,  but  certainly  in  his 
talk,  which  is  far  and  away  the  richest  I  ever 
listened  to." 

"And  what  is  it  all  about  ?" 

"My  dear  fellow,  don't  ask  me!  About  every 
thing ! "  I  pursued,  reminding  myself  of  poor 
Adelaide.  "About  his  ideas  of  things,"  I  then 
more  charitably  added.  "You  must  have  heard 
him  to  know  what  I  mean — it's  unlike  any  thing 
that  ever  was  heard."  I  colored,  I  admit,  I  over 
charged  a  little,  for  such  a  picture  was  an  anticipa 
tion  of  Saltram's  later  development  and  still  more 
of  my  fuller  acquaintance  with  him.  However,  I 
really  expressed,  a  little  lyrically  perhaps,  my 
actual  imagination  of  him  when  I  proceeded  to 
declare  that,  in  a  cloud  of  tradition,  of  legend,  he 
might  very  well  go  down  to  posterity  as  the  great 
est  of  all  great  talkers.  Before  we  parted  George 
Gravener  demanded  why  such  a  row  should  be 
made  about  a  chatterbox  the  more,  and  why  he 
should  be  pampered  and  pensioned.  The  greater 
the  wind-bag,  the  greater  the  calamity.  Out  of 


THE    COXOX    FUND  69 

proportion  to  every  thing  else  on  earth  had  come 
to  be  this  wagging  of  the  tongue.  We  were 
drenched  with  talk — our  wretched  age  was  dying 
of  it.  I  differed  from  him  here  sincerely,  only  go 
ing  so  far  as  to  concede,  and  gladly,  that  we  were 
drenched  with  sound.  It  was  not,  however,  the 
mere  speakers  who  were  killing  us — it  was  the  mere 
stammerers.  Fine  talk  was  as  rare  as  it  was  re 
freshing — the  gift  of  the  gods  themselves,  the  one 
starry  spangle  on  the  ragged  cloak  of  humanity. 
How  many  men  were  there  who  rose  to  this  privi 
lege,  of  how  many  masters  of  conversation  could 
he  boast  the  acquaintance?  Dying  of  talk?  why, 
we  were  dying  of  the  lack  of  it  !  Bad  writing 
wasn't  talk,  as  many  people  seemed  to  think,  and 
even  good  wasn't  always  to  be  compared  to  it. 
From  the  best  talk,  indeed,  the  best  writing  had 
something  to  learn.  I  fancifully  added  that  we 
too  should  peradventure  be  gilded  by  the  legend, 
should  be  pointed  at  for  having  listened,  for  having 
actually  heard.  Gravener,  who  had  glanced  at  his 
watch  and  discovered  it  was  midnight,  found  to 
all  this  a  response  beautifully  characteristic  of  him. 
"  There  is  one  little  fact  to  be  borne  in  mind  in 
the  presence  equally  of  the  best  talk  and  of  the 
worst."  He  looked,  in  saying  this,  as  if  he  meant 
so  much  that  I  thought  he  could  only  mean  once 
more  that  neither  of  them  mattered  if  a  man  wasn't 
a  real  gentleman.  Perhaps  it  was  what  he  did 
mean  ;  he  deprived  me,  however,  of  the  exultation 
of  being  right  by  putting  the  truth  in  a  slightly 


70  THE    COXON   FUND 

different  way.  "  The  only  thing  that  really  counts 
for  one's  estimate  of  a  person  is  his  conduct."  He 
had  his  watch  still  in  his  hand,  and  I  reproached 
him  with  unfair  play  in  having  ascertained  before 
hand  that  it  was  now  the  hour  at  which  I  always 
gave  in.  My  pleasantry  so  far  failed  to  mollify 
him  that  he  promptly  added  that  to  the  rule  he 
had  just  enunciated  there  was  absolutely  no  excep 
tion. 

"None  whatever?" 

"  None  whatever  !  " 

"Trust  me,  then,  to  try  to  be  good  at  any 
price  !  "  I  laughed  as  I  went  with  him  to  the  door. 
"  I  declare  I  will  be,  if  I  have  to  be  horrible  !  " 


III 

IF  that  first  night  was  one  of  the  liveliest,  or  at 
any  rate  was  the  freshest,  of  my  exaltations,  there 
was  another,  four  years  later,  that  was  one  of  my 
great  discomposures.  Repetition,  I  well  knew  by 
this  time,  was  the  secret  of  Saltram's  power  to 
alienate,  and  of  course  one  would  never  have  seen 
him  at  his  finest  if  one  hadn't  seen  him  in  his 
remorses.  They  set  in  mainly  at  this  season,  and 
were  magnificent,  orchestral.  I  was  perfectly 
aware  that  something  of  the  sort  was  now  due  ; 
but  none  the  less,  in  our  arduous  attempt  to  set 
him  on  his  feet  as  a  lecturer,  it  was  impossible  not 


THE    COXON    FUND  71 

to  feel  that  two  failures  were  a  large  order,  as  we 
said,  for  a  short  course  of  five.  This  was  the 
second  time,  and  it  was  past  nine  o'clock  ;  the 
audience,  a  muster  unprecedented  and  really 
encouraging,  had  fortunately  the  attitude  of 
blandness  that  might  have  been  looked  for  in  per 
sons  whom  the  promise  (if  I  am  not  mistaken)  of 
an  Analysis  of  Primary  Ideas  had  drawn  to  the 
neighborhood  of  Upper  Baker  Street.  There 
was  in  those  days  in  that  region  a  petty  lecture- 
hall  to  be  secured  on  terms  as  moderate  as  the 
funds  left  at  our  disposal  by  the  irrepressible  ques 
tion  of  the  maintenance  of  five  small  Saltrams  (I 
include  the  mother)  and  one  large  one.  By  the 
time  the  Saltrams,  of  different  sizes,  were  all  main 
tained,  we  had  pretty  well  pqured  out  the  oil  that 
might  have  lubricated  the  machinery  for  enabling 
the  most  original  of  men  to  appear  to  maintain 
them. 

It  was  I,  the  other  time,  who  had  been  forced 
into  the  breach,  standing  up  there  for  an  odious 
lamplit  moment  to  explain  to  half  a  dozen  thin 
benches,  where  the  earnest  brows  were  virtuously 
void  of  any  thing  so  cynical  as  a  suspicion,  that 
we  couldn't  put  so  much  as  a  finger  on  Mr.  Sal  tram. 
There  was  nothing  to  plead  but  that  our  scouts 
had  been  out  from  the  early  hours,  and  that  we 
were  afraid  that  on  one  of  his  walks  abroad — he 
took  one,  for  meditation,  whenever  he  was  to 
address  such  a  company — some  accident  had  dis 
abled  or  delayed  him.  The  meditative  walks  were 


72  THE    COXON    FUND 

a  fiction,  for  he  never,  that  any  one  could  discover, 
prepared  any  tiling  but  a  magnificent  prospectus  ; 
so  that  his  circulars  and  programmes,  of  which  I 
possess  an  almost  complete  collection,  are  the 
solemn  ghosts  of  generations  never  born.  I  put 
the  case,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  at  the  best  ;  but  I 
admit  I  had  been  angry,  and  Kent  Mulville  was 
shocked  at  my  want  of  public  optimism.  This 
time,  therefore,  I  left  the  excuses  to  his  more  prac 
tised  patience,  only  relieving  myself  in  response  to 
a  direct  appeal  from  a  young  lady,  next  whom,  in 
the  hall,  I  found  myself  sitting.  My  position  was 
an  accident,  but  if  it  had  been  calculated  the 
reason  would  scarcely  have  eluded  an  observer  of 
the  fact  that  no  one  else  in  the  room  had  an 
approach  to  an  appearance.  Our  philosopher's 
"tail"  was  deplorably  limp.  This  visitor  was  the 
only  person  who  looked  at  her  ease,  who  had  come 
a  little  in  the  spirit  of  adventure.  She  seemed  to 
carry  amusement  in  her  handsome  young  head,  and 
her  presence  quite  gave  me  the  sense  of  a  sudden 
extension  of  Saltram's  sphere  of  influence.  He 
was  doing  better  than  we  hoped,  and  he  had 
chosen  such  an  occasion,  of  all  occasions,  to  suc 
cumb  to  Heaven  knew  which  of  his  infirmities. 
The  young  lady  produced  an  impression  of  auburn 
hair  and  black  velvet,  and  had  on  her  other  hand 
a  companion  of  obscurer  type,  presumably  a  wait 
ing-maid.  She  herself  might  perhaps  have  been  a 
foreign  countess,  and  before  she  spoke  to  me  I  had 
beguiled  our  sorry  interval  by  thinking  that  she 


THE    COXON    FUND  73 

brought  vaguely  back  the  first  page  of  some  novel 
of  Mme.  Sand.  It  didn't  make  her  more  fathom 
able  to  perceive  in  a  few  minutes  that  she  could 
only  be  an  American  ;  it  simply  engendered  depres 
sing  reflections  as  to  the  possible  check  to  con 
tributions  from  Boston.  She  asked  me  if,  as  a 
person  apparently  more  initiated,  I  would  recom 
mend  further  waiting,  and  I  replied  that,  if  she 
considered  I  was  on  my  honor,  I  would  privately 
deprecate  it.  Perhaps  she  didn't ;  at  any  rate 
something  passed  between  us  that  led  us  to  talk 
until  she  became  aware  that  we  were  almost  the 
only  people  left.  I  presently  discovered  that  she 
knew  Mrs.  Saltram,  and  this  explained  in  a  manner 
the  miracle.  The  brotherhood  of  the  friends  of 
the  husband  was  as  nothing  to  the  brotherhood,  or 
perhaps  I  should  say  the  sisterhood,  of  the  friends 
of  the  wife.  Like  the  Kent  Mulvilles,  I  belonged 
to  both  fraternities,  and,  even  better  than  they,  I 
think  I  had  sounded  the  abyss  of  Mrs.  Saltram's 
wrongs.  She  bored  me  to  extinction,  and  I  knew 
but  too  well  how  she  had  bored  her  husband ;  but 
she  had  those  who  stood  by  her,  the  most  efficient 
of  whom  were  indeed  the  handful  of  poor  Saltram's 
backers.  They  did  her  liberal  justice,  whereas  her 
mere  patrons  and  partisans  had  nothing  but  hatred 
for  our  philosopher.  I  am  bound  to  say  it  was  we, 
however, — we  of  both  camps,  as  it  were, — who  had 
always  done  most  for  her. 

I  thought  my  young  lady  looked  rich — I  scarcely 
knew  why  ;  and  I  hoped  she  had  put  her  hand  in 


74  THE    COXON   FUND 

her  pocket.  But  I  soon  discovered  that  she  was 
not  a  fine  fanatic — she  was  only  a  generous,  irre 
sponsible  enquirer.  She  had  come  to  England  to 
see  her  aunt,  and  it  was  at  her  aunt's  she  had  met 
the  dreary  lady  we  had  all  so  much  on  our  mind. 
I  saw  she  would  help  to  pass  the  time  when  she 
observed  that  it  was  a  pity  this  lady  wasn't  intrin 
sically  more  interesting.  That  was  refreshing, 
for  it  was  an  article  of  faith  in  Mrs.  Saltram's 
circle — at  least  among  those  who  scorned  to  know 
her  horrid  husband — that  she  wras  attractive  on 
her  merits.  She  was  really  a  very  common  per 
son,  as  Saltram  himself  would  have  been  if  he 
hadn't  been  a  prodigy.  The  question  of  vulgarity 
had  no  application  to  him,  but  it  was  a  measure 
that  his  wife  kept  challenging  you  to  apply.  I 
hasten  to  add  that  the  consequences  of  your  doing 
so  were  no  sufficient  reason  for  his  having  left  her 
to  starve.  "  He  doesn't  seem  to  have  much  force 
of  character,"  said  my  young  lady ;  at  which 
I  laughed  out  so  loud  that  my  departing  friends 
looked  back  at  me  over  their  shoulders  as  if  I  were 
making  a  joke  of  their  discomfiture.  My  joke 
probably  cost  Saltram  a  subscription  or  two,  but 
it  helped  me  on  with  my  interlocutress.  "  She 
says  he  drinks  like  a  fish,"  she  sociably  continued, 
"  and  yet  she  admits  that  his  mind  is  wonderfully 
clear."  It  was  amusing  to  converse  with  a  pretty 
girl  who  could  talk  of  the  clearness  of  Saltram's 
mind.  I  expected  her  next  to  say  that  she  had 
been  assured  he  was  awfully  clever.  I  tried  to  tell 


THE    COXON    FUND  75 

her — I  bad  it  almost  on  my  conscience — what  was 
the  proper  way  to  regard  him  ;  an  effort  attended 
perhaps  more  than  ever  on  this  occasion  with  the 
usual  effect  of  my  feeling  that  I  wasn't  after  all 
very  sure  of  it.  She  had  come  to-night  out  of 
high  curiosity — she  had  wanted  to  find  out  this 
proper  way  for  herself.  She  had  read  some  of  his 
papers  and  hadn't  understood  them  ;  but  it  was  at 
home,  at  her  aunt's,  that  her  curiosity  had  been 
kindled — kindled  mainly  by  his  wife's  remarkable 
stories  of  his  want  of  virtue.  "I  suppose  they 
ought  to  have  kept  me  away,"  my  companion 
dropped,  "  and  I  suppose  they  would  have  done  so, 
if  I  hadn't  somehow  got  an  idea  that  he's  fasci 
nating.  In  fact  Mrs.  Saltram  herself  says  he  is." 

"  So  you  came  to  see  where  the  fascination 
resides  ?  Well,  you've  seen  !  " 

My  young  lady  raised  her  fine  eyebrows.  "  Do 
you  mean  in  his  bad  faith  ?  " 

"In  the  extraordinary  effects  of  it ;  his  posses 
sion,  that  is,  of  some  quality  or  other  that  con 
demns  us  in  advance  to  forgive  him  the  humil 
iation,  as  I  may  call  it,  to  which  he  has  sub 
jected  us." 

"  The  humiliation  ?  " 

"  Why,  mine,  for  instance,  as  one  of  his  guaran 
tors,  before  you  as  the  purchaser  of  a  ticket." 

"  You  don't  look  humiliated  a  bit,  and  if  you  did 
I  should  let  you  off,  disappointed  as  I  am  ;  for  the 
mysterious  quality  you  speak  of  is  just  the  quality 
I  came  to  see." 


76  THE    COXON   FUND 

"  Oh,  you  can't  (  see  '  it  !  "  I  exclaimed. 

"  How,  then,  do  you  get  at  it  ?  " 

"  You  don't !  You  mustn't  suppose  he's  good- 
looking,"  I  added. 

"  Why,  his  wife  says  he's  lovel}7" !  " 

My  hilarity  may  have  struck  my  interlocutress 
as  excessive,  but  I  confess  it  broke  out  afresh. 
Had  she  acted  only  in  obedience  to  this  singular 
plea,  so  characteristic,  on  Mrs.  Saltram's  part,  of 
what  was  irritating  in  the  narrowness  of  that 
lady's  point  of  view  ?  "  Mrs.  Saltram,"  I  explained, 
"  undervalues  him  where  he  is  strongest,  so  that,  to 
make  up  for  it,  perhaps,  she  overpraises  him  where 
he's  weak.  He's  not,  assuredly,  superficially 
attractive  ;  he's  middle-aged,  fat,  featureless,  save 
for  his  great  eyes." 

"  Yes,  his  great  eyes,"  said  my  young  lady 
attentively.  She  had  evidently  heard  all  about  his 
great  eyes — the  beaux  yeux  for  which  alone  we  had 
really  done  it  all. 

"They're  tragic  and  splendid — lights  on  a  dan 
gerous  coast.  But  he  moves  badly  and  dresses 
worse,  and  altogether  he's  any  thing  but  smart." 

My  companion  appeared  to  reflect  on  this,  and 
after  a  moment  she  enquired  :  "  Do  you  call  him  a 
real  gentleman  ?  " 

I  started  slightly  at  the  question,  for  I  had  a 
sense  of  recognizing  it ;  George  Gravener,  years 
before,  that  first  flushed  night,  had  put  me  face  to 
face  with  it.  It  had  embarrassed  me  then,  but  it 
didn't  embarrass  me  now,  for  I  had  lived  with  it 


THE    COXON    FUND  77 

.and  overcome  it  and  disposed  of  it.  "  A  real  gen 
tleman  ?  Emphatically  not  !  " 

My  promptitude  surprised  her  a  little,  but  I 
quickly  felt  that  it  was  not  to  Gravener  I  was  now 
talking.  "  Do  you  say  that  because  he's — what  do 
3'ou  call  it  in  England  ? — of  humble  extraction  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit.  His  father  was  a  country  school 
master  and  his  mother  the  widow  of  a  sexton,  but 
that  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I  say  it  simply 
because  I  know  him  well." 

"But  isn't  it  an  awful  drawback?" 

"  Awful — quite  awful." 

"  I  mean  isn't  it  positively  fatal  ?" 

"Fatal  to  what?  Not  to  his  magnificent 
vitality." 

Again  there  was  a  meditative  moment.  "And 
is  his  magnificent  vitality  the  cause  of  his  vices  ?" 

"  Your  questions  are  formidable,  but  I'm  glad 
you  put  them.  I  was  thinking  of  his  noble  intellect. 
His  vices,  as  you  say,  have  been  much  exaggerated  : 
they  consist  mainly,  after  all,  in  one  comprehensive 
defect." 

"  A  want  of  will  ?  " 

"A  want  of  dignity." 

"  He  doesn't  recognize  his  obligations  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  he  recognizes  them  with 
effusion,  especially  in  public  ;  he  smiles  and  bows 
and  beckons  across  the  street  to  them.  But  when 
they  pass  over  he  turns  away,  and  he  speedily  loses 
them  in  the  crowd.  The  recognition  is  purely 
spiritual — it  isn't  in  the  least  social.  So  he  leaves 


78  THE    COXON    FUND 

all  his  belongings  to  other  people  to  take  care  of. 
He  accepts  favors,  loans,  sacrifices,  with  nothing 
more  deterrent  than  an  agony  of  shame.  Fortu 
nately  we're  a  little  faithful  band,  and  we  do  what 
we  can."  I  held  my  tongue  about  the  natural 
children,  engendered,  to  the  number  of  three,  in  the 
wantonness  of  his  youth.  I  only  remarked  that  he 
did  make  efforts — often  tremendous  ones.  "But 
the  efforts,"  I  said,  "  never  come  to  much  ;  the  only 
things  that  come  to  much  are  the  abandonments, 
the  surrenders." 

"  And  how  much  do  they  come  to  ?  " 

"You're  right  to  put  it  as  if  we  had  a  big  bill  to 
pay,  but,  as  I've  told  you  before,  your  questions  are 
rather  terrible.  They  come,  these  mere  exercises  of 
genius,  to  a  great  sum  total  of  poetry,  of  philosophy, 
a  mighty  mass  of  speculation,  of  notation.  The 
genius  is  there,  you  see,  to  meet  the  surrender ;  but 
there's  no  genius  to  support  the  defence." 

"But  what  is  there,  after  all,  at  his  age,  to 
show  ?  " 

"  In  the  way  of  achievement  recognized  and  repu 
tation  established?"  I  interrupted.  "To  'show' 
if  you  will,  there  isn't  much,  for  his  writing,  mostly, 
isn't  as  fine,  isn't  certainly  as  showy,  as  his  talk. 
Moreover,  two-thirds  of  his  work  are  merely  colossal 
projects  and  announcements.  '  Showing '  Frank 
Saltram  is  often  a  poor  business  ;  wre  endeavored, 
you  will  have  observed,  to  show  him  to-night  ! 
However,  if  he  Atik?  lectured,  he  would  have  lectured 
divinely.  It  would  just  have  been  his  talk." 


THE    COXON   FUND  79 

"  And  what  would  his  talk  just  have  been  ?" 
I  was  conscious  of  some  ineffectiveness  as  well 
perhaps  as  of  a  little  impatience  as  I  replied  :  "  The 
exhibition  of  a  splendid  intellect."  My  young  lady 
looked  not  quite  satisfied  at  this,  but  as  I  was  not 
prepared  for  another  question  I  hastily  pursued: 
"  The  sight  of  a  great  suspended,  swinging  crystal, 
huge,  lucid,  lustrous,  a  block  of  light,  flashing  back 
every  impression  of  life  and  every  possibility  of 
thought  !  "  This  gave  her  something  to  think  about 
till  we  had  passed  out  to  the  dusky  porch  of  the  hall, 
in  front  of  which  the  lamps  of  a  quiet  brougham 
were  almost  the  only  thing  Saltrarn's  treachery 
hadn't  extinguished.  I  went  with  her  to  the  door 
of  her  carriage,  out  of  which  she  leaned  a  moment 
after  she  had  thanked  me  and  had  taken  her  seat. 
Her  smile,  even  in  the  darkness,  was  pretty.  "I  do 
want  to  see  that  crystal  !  " 

"  You've  only  to  come  to  the  next  lecture." 
c:  I  go  abroad  in  a  day  or  two  with  my  aunt." 
"  Wait  over  till  next  week,"  I  suggested.     "  It's 
quite  worth  it." 

She  became  grave.  "Not  unless  he  really 
cames  ! "  At  which  the  brougham  started  off, 
carrying  her  away  too  fast,  fortunately  for  my 
manners,  to  allow  me  to  exclaim  "  Ingratitude  ! " 


IV 

MES.  SALTEAM  made  a  great  affair  of  her  right  to 
be  informed  where  her  husband  had  been  the  sec 
ond  evening  he  failed  to  meet  his  audience.  She 
came  to  me  to  ascertain,  but  I  couldn't  satisfy  her, 
for  in  spite  of  my  ingenuity  I  remained  in  igno 
rance.  It  was  not  till  much  later  that  I  found  this 
had  not  been  the  case  with  Kent  Mulville,  whose 
hope  for  the  best  never  twirled  his  thumbs  more 
placidly  than  when  he  happened  to  know  the 
worst.  lie  had  known  it  on  the  occasion  I  speak 
of — that  is,  immediately  after.  He  was  impene 
trable  then,  but  he  ultimately  confessed.  What 
lie  confessed  was  more  than  I  shall  venture  to  con 
fess  to-day.  It  was  of  course  familiar  to  me  that 
Saltram  was  incapable  of  keeping  the  engagements 
which,  after  their  separation,  he  had  entered  into 
with  regard  to  his  wife,  a  deeply  wronged,  justly 
resentful,  quite  irreproachable  and  insufferable 
person.  She  often  appeared  at  my  chambers  to 
talk  over  his  lapses  ;  for  if,  as  she  declared,  she  had 
washed  her  hands  of  him,  she  had  carefully  pre 
served  the  water  of  this  ablution  and  she  handed 
it  about  for  inspection.  She  had  arts  of  her  own 
of  exciting  one's  impatience,  the  most  infallible  of 
which  was  perhaps  her  assumption  tha£  we  were 


THE    COXON   FUND  81 

kind  to  her  because  we  liked  her.  In  reality  her 
personal  fall  had  been  a  sort  of  social  rise,  for 
there  had  been  a  moment  when,  in  our  little  con 
scientious  circle,  her  desolation  almost  made  her 
the  fashion.  Her  voice  was  grating  and  her  chil 
dren  ugly  ;  moreover  she  hated  the  good  Mul- 
villes,  whom  I  more  and  more  loved.  They  were 
the  people  who,  by  doing  most  for  her  husband, 
had  in  the  long  run  done  most  for  herself  ;  and  the 
warm  confidence  with  which  he  had  laid  his  length 
upon  them  was  a  pressure  gentle  compared  with 
her  stiffer  persuadability.  I  am  bound  to  say  he 
didn't  criticise  his  benefactors,  though  practically 
he  got  tired  of  them  ;  she,  however,  had  the 
highest  standards  about  eleemosynary  forms.  She 
offered  the  odd  spectacle  of  a  spirit  puffed  up  by 
dependence,  and  indeed  it  had  introduced  her  to 
some  excellent  society.  She  pitied  me  for  not 
knowing  certain  people  who  aided  her,  and  whom 
she  doubtless  patronized  in  turn  for  their  luck  in 
not  knowing  me.  I  dare  say  I  should  have  got  on 
with  her  better  if  she  had  had  a  ray  of  imagina 
tion — if  it  had  occasionally  seemed  to  occur  to  her 
to  regard  Saltram's  manifestations  in  any  other 
manner  than  as  separate  subjects  of  woe.  They 
were  all  flowers  of  his  nature,  pearls  strung  on  an 
endless  thread  ;  but  she  had  a  stubborn  little  way 
of  challenging  them  one  after  the  other,  as  if  she 
never  suspected  that  he  had  a  nature,  such  as  it 
was,  or  that  deficiencies  might  be  organic  ;  the 
irritating  effect  of  a  mind  incapable  of  a  generali- 
6 


82  THE    COXON   FUND 

zation.  One  might  doubtless  have  overdone  the 
idea  that  there  was  a  general  exemption  for  such 
a  man  ;  but,  if  this  had  happened,  it  would  have 
been  through  one's  feeling  that  there  could  be 
none  for  such  a  woman. 

I  recognized  her  superiority  when  I  asked  her 
about  the  aunt  of  the  disappointed  young  lady  ;  it 
sounded  like  a  sentence  from  a  phrase-book.  She 
triumphed  in  what  she  told  me,  and  she  may  have 
triumphed  still  more  in  what  she  withheld.  My 
friend  of  the  other  evening,  Miss  Anvoy,  had  but 
lately  come  to  England  ;  Lady  Coxon,  the  aunt, 
had  been  established  here  for  years  in  consequence 
of  her  marriage  with  the  late  Sir  Gregory  of  that 
ilk.  She  had  a  house  in  the  Regent's  Park,  a 
bath-chair,  and  a  fernery  ;  and  above  all  she  had 
sympathy.  Mrs.  Saltram  had  made  her  acquaint 
ance  through  mutual  friends.  This  vagueness 
caused  me  to  feel  how  much  I  was  out  of  it,  and 
how  large  an  independent  circle  Mrs.  Saltram  had 
at  her  command.  I  should  have  been  glad  to 
know  more  about  the  disappointed  young  lady, 
but  I  felt  that  I  should  know  most  by  not  depriv 
ing  her  of  her  advantage,  as  she  might  have  mys 
terious  means  of  depriving  me  of  my  knowledge. 
For  the  present,  moreover,  this  experience  was 
arrested,  Lady  Coxon  having  in  fact  gone  abroad, 
accompanied  by  her  niece.  The  niece,  besides 
being  immensely  clever,  was  an  heiress,  Mrs.  Salt 
ram  said  ;  the  only  daughter  and  the  light  of  the 
eyes  of  some  great  American  merchant,  a  man, 


THE    COXON   FUND  83 

over  there,  of  endless  indulgences  and  dollars. 
She  had  pretty  clothes  and  pretty  manners,  and 
she  had,  what  was  prettier  still,  the  great  thing  of 
all.  The  great  thing  of  all  for  Mrs.  Saltram  was 
always  sympathy,  and  she  spoke  as  if,  during  the 
absence  of  these  ladies,  she  might  not  know  where 
to  turn  for  it.  A  few  months  later  indeed,  when 
they  had  corne  back,  her  tone  perceptibly  changed; 
she  alluded  to  them,  on  my  leading  her  up  to  it, 
rather  as  to  persons  in  her  debt  for  favors  received. 
What  had  happened  I  didn't  know,  but  I  saw  it 
would  take  only  a  little  more  or  a  little  less  to 
make  her  speak  of  them  as  thankless  subjects  of 
social  countenance — people  for  whom  she  had 
vainly  tried  to  do  something.  I  confess  I  saw  that 
it  would  not  be  in  a  mere  week  or  two  that  I 
should  rid  myself  of  the  image  of  Ruth  Anvoy,  in 
whose  very  name,  when  I  learned  it,  I  found  some 
thing  secretly  to  like.  I  should  probably  neither 
see  her  nor  hear  of  her  again  ;  the  knight's  widow 
(he  had  been  mayor  of  Clockborough)  would  pass 
away  and  the  heiress  would  return  to  her  inherit 
ance.  I  gathered  with  surprise  that  she  had  not 
communicated  to  his  wife  the  story  of  her  attempt 
to  hear  Mr.  Saltram,  and  I  founded  this  reticence 
on  the  easy  supposition  that  Mrs.  Saltram  had 
fatigued  by  over-pressure  the  spring  of  the  sym 
pathy  of  which  she  boasted.  The  girl  at  any  rate 
would  forget  the  small  adventure,  be  distracted, 
take  a  husband  ;  besides  which  she  would  lack 
opportunity  to  repeat  her  experiment. 


84  THE    COXON   FUND 

We  clung  to  the  idea  of  the  brilliant  course,  de 
livered  without  an  accident,  that,  as  a  lecturer, 
would  still  make  the  paying  public  aware  of  our 
great  mind  ;  but  the  fact  remained  that  in  the 
case  of  an  inspiration  so  unequal  there  was  treach 
ery  ;  there  was  fallacy,  at  least,  in  the  very  con 
ception  of  a  series.  In  our  scrutiny  of  ways  and 
means  we  were  inevitably  subject  to  the  old  con 
vention  of  the  synopsis,  the  syllabus — partly  of 
course  not  to  lose  the  advantage  of  his  grand  free 
hand  in  drawing  up  such  things  ;  but,  for  myself, 
I  laughed  at  our  playbills,  even  while  I  stickled 
for  them.  It  was  indeed  amusing  work  to  be 
scrupulous  for  Frank  Sal  tram,  who  also  at 
moments  laughed  about  it,  so  far  as  the  comfort  of 
a  sigh  so  unstudied  as  to  be  cheerful  might  pass 
for  such  a  sound.  He  admitted  with  a  candor  all 
his  own  that  he  was  in  truth  only  to  be  depended 
on  in  the  Mulvilles'  drawing-room.  "  Yes,"  he 
suggestively  conceded,  "it's  there,  I  think,  that  I 
am  at  my  best  ;  quite  late,  when  it  gets  toward 
eleven — and  if  I've  not  been  too  much  worried." 
We  all  knew  what  too  much  worry  meant  ;  it 
meant  too  enslaved  for  the  hour  to  the  superstition 
of  sobriety.  On  the  Saturdays  I  used  to  bring  my 
portmanteau,  so  as  not  to  have  to  think  of  eleven 
o'clock  trains.  I  had  a  bold  theory  that  as  regards 
this  temple  of  talk  and  its  altars  of  cushioned 
chintz,  its  pictures  and  its  flowers,  its  large  fire 
side  and  clear  lamplight,  we  might  really  arrive  at 
something  if  the  Mulvilles  would  only  charge  for 


THE    COXON    FUND  85 

admission.  But  here  it  was  that  the  Mulvilles 
shamelessly  broke  down  ;  as  there  is  a  flaw  in 
every  perfection,  this  was  the  inexpugnable  refuge 
of  their  egotism.  They  declined  to  make  their 
saloon  a  market,  so  that  Saltram's  golden  words 
continued  to  be  the  only  coin  that  rang  there.  It 
can  have  happened  to  no  man,  however,  to  be  paid 
a  greater  price  than  such  an  enchanted  hush  as 
surrounded  him  on  his  greatest  nights.  The  most 
profane,  on  these  occasions,  felt  a  presence  ;  all 
minor  eloquence  grew  dumb.  Adelaide  Mulville, 
for  the  pride  of  her  hospitality,  anxiously  watched 
the  door  or  stealthily  poked  the  fire.  I  used  to 
call  it  the  music-room,  for  we  had  anticipated 
Bayreuth.  The  very  gates  of  the  kingdom  of 
light  seemed  to  open,  and  the  horizon  of  thought 
to  flash  with  the  beauty  of  a  sunrise  at  sea. 

In  the  consideration  of  ways  and  means,  the  sit 
tings  of  our  little  board,  we  were  always  conscious 
of  the  creak  of  Mrs.  Saltram's  shoes.  She  hovered, 
she  interrupted,  she  almost  presided  ;  the  state  of 
affairs  being  mostly  such  as  to  supply  her  with 
every  incentive  for  enquiring  what  was  to  be  done 
next.  It  was  the  pressing  pursuit  of  this  knowl 
edge  that,  in  concatenations  of  omnibuses  and 
usually  in  very  wet  weather,  led  her  so 'often  to 
my  door.  She  thought  us  spiritless  creatures  with 
editors  and  publishers  ;  but  she  carried  matters  to 
no  great  effect  when  she  personally  pushed  into 
back-shops.  She  wanted  all  moneys  to  be  paid  to 
herself ;  they  were  otherwise  liable  to  such  strange 


86  THE    COXON   FUND 

adventures.  They  trickled  away  into  the  desert, 
and  they  were  mainly  at  best,  alas  !  but  a  slender 
stream.  The  editors  and  the  publishers  were  the 
last  people  to  take  this  remarkable  thinker  at  the 
valuation  that  has  now  pretty  well  come  to  be  estab 
lished.  The  former  were  half  distraught  between 
the  desire  to  "cut"  him  and  the  difficulty  of  finding 
a  crevice  for  their  shears  ;  and  when  a  volume  on 
this  or  that  portentous  subject  was  proposed  to  the 
latter  they  suggested  alternative  titles  which,  as 
reported  to  our  friend,  brought  into  his  face  the 
noble  blank  melancholy  that  sometimes  made  it 
handsome.  The  title  of  an  unwritten  book  didn't 
after  all  much  matter, but  some  masterpiece  of  Salt- 
ram's  may  have  died  in  his  bosom  of  the  shudder 
with  which  it  was  then  convulsed.  The  ideal  solu 
tion,  failing  the  fee  at  Kent  Mulville's  door,  would 
have  been  some  system  of  subscription  to  projected 
treatises  with  their  non-appearance  provided  for — 
provided  for,  I  mean,  by  the  indulgence  of  sub 
scribers.  The  author's  real  misfortune  was  that 
subscribers  were  so  wretchedly  literal.  When 
they  tastelessly  enquired  why  publication  had  not 
ensued,  I  was  tempted  to  ask  who  in  the  world 
had  ever  been  so  published.  Nature  herself  had 
brought  him  out  in  voluminous  form,  and  the 
money  was  simply  a  deposit  on  borrowing  the 
work. 


I  WAS  doubtless  often  a  nuisance  to  my  friends 
in  those  years  ;  but  there  were  sacrifices  I  declined 
to  make,  and  I  never  passed  the  hat  to  George 
Gravener.  I  never  forgot  our  little  discussion  in 
Ebury  Street,  and  I  think  it  stuck  in  my  throat  to 
have  to  make  to  him  the  admission  I  had  made  so 
easily  to  Miss  Anvoy.  It  had  cost  me  nothing  to 
confide  to  this  charming  girl,  but  it  would  have 
cost  me  much  to  confide  to  the  friend  of  my  youth 
that  the  character  of  the  "real  gentleman"  was 
not  an  attribute  of  the  man  I  took  such  pains  for. 
Was  this  because  I  had  already  generalized  to  the 
point  of  perceiving  that  women  are  really  the 
unfastidious  sex?  I  knew  at  any  rate  that  Grave 
ner,  already  quite  in  view  but  still  hungry  and 
frugal,  had,  naturally  enough,  more  ambition  than 
charity.  He  had  sharp  aims  for  stray  sovereigns, 
being  in  view  most  from  the  tall  steeple  of  Clock- 
borough.  His  immediate  ambition  was  to  wholly 
occupy  the  field  of  vision  of  that  smokily-seeing 
city,  and  all  his  movements  and  postures  were  calcu 
lated  for  this  angle.  The  movement  of  the  hand  to 
the  pocket  had  thus  to  alternate  gracefully  with  the 
posture  of  the  hand  on  the  heart.  He  talked  to 
Clockborough,  in  short,  only  less  beguilingly  than 


88  THE    COXON    FUND 

Frank  Saltram  talked  to  his  electors  ;  with  the 
difference  in  our  favor,  however,  that  we  had 
already  voted  and  that  our  candidate  had  no 
antagonist  but  himself.  He  had  more  than  once 
been  at  Wimbledon, — it  was  Mrs.  Mulville's  work, 
not  mine, — and,  by  the  time  the  claret  was  served, 
had  seen  the  god  descend.  He  took  more  pains  to 
swing  his  censer  than  I  had  expected,  but  on  our 
way  back  to  town  he  forestalled  any  little  triumph 
I  might  have  been  so  artless  as  to  express  by  the  ob 
servation  that  such  a  man  was — a  hundred  times  ! — 
a  man  to  use  and  never  a  man  to  be  used  by.  I 
remember  that  this  neat  remark  humiliated  me 
almost  as  much  as  if,  virtually,  in  the  fever  of 
broken  slumbers,  I  hadn't  often  made  it  myself. 
The  difference  was  that  on  Gravener's  part  a  force 
attached  to  it  that  could  never  attach  to  it  on  mine. 
He  was  able  to  use  people — he  had  the  machinery  ; 
and  the  irony  of  Sal  tram's  being  made  showy  at 
Clockborough  came  out  to  me  when  lie  said,  as  if 
he  had  no  memory  of  our  original  talk  and  the 
idea  were  quite  fresh  to  him,  "I  hate  his  type, 
you  know,  but  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  don't  put  some 
of  those  things  in.  I  can  find  a  place  for  them  ; 
we  might  even  find  a  place  for  the  fellow  himself." 
I  myself  should  have  had  some  fear,  not,  I  need 
scarcely  say,  for  the  "  things  "  themselves,  but  for 
some  other  things  very  near  them — in  fine  for  the 
rest  of  my  eloquence. 

Later  on  I  could  see  that  the  oracle  of  Wimble 
don  was  not  in  this  case  so  appropriate  as  he  would 


THE    COXON   FUND  89 

have  been  had  the  politics  of  the  gods  or\\y  coin 
cided  more  exactly  with  those  of  the  party.  There 
was  a  distinct  moment  when,  without  saying  any 
thing  more  definite  to  me,  Gravener  entertained 
the  idea  of  annexing  Mr.  Saltram.  Such  a  project 
was  delusive,  for  the  discovery  of  analogies  be 
tween  his  body  of  doctrine  and  that  pressed  from 
headquarters  upon  Clockborough— the  bottling,  in 
a  word,  of  the  air  of  those  lungs  for  convenient 
public  uncorking  in  corn-exchanges — was  an  ex 
periment  for  which  no  one  had  the  leisure.  The 
only  thing  would  have  been  to  carry  him  massively 
about,  paid,  caged,  clipped  ;  to  turn  him  on  for  a 
particular  occasion  in  a  particular  channel.  Frank 
Saltram's  channel,  however,  was  essentially  not 
calculable,  and  there  was  no  knowing  what  disas 
trous  floods  might  have  ensued.  For  what  there 
would  have  been  to  do  T/ie  Empire,  the  great  news 
paper,  was  there  to  look  to;  but  it  was  no  new  mis 
fortune  that  there  were  delicate  situations  in  which 
The  Empire  broke  down.  In  fine,  there  was  an 
instinctive  apprehension  that  a  clever  young  jour 
nalist  commissioned  to  report  upon  Mr.  Saltram 
might  never  come  back  from  the  errand.  No  one 
knew  better  than  George  Gravener  that  that  was  a 
time  when  prompt  returns  counted  double.  If  he, 
therefore,  found  our  friend  an  exasperating  waste 
of  orthodoxy,  it  was  because  he  was,  as  he  said,  up 
in  the  clouds,  not  because  he  was  down  in  the  dust. 
He  would  have  been  a  real  enough  gentleman,  if 
he  could  have  helped  to  put  in  a  real  gentleman. 


90  THE    COXON   FUND 

Gravener's  great  objection  to  the  actual  member 
was  that  he  was  not  one. 

Lady  Coxon  had  a  fine  old  house,  a  house  with 
"grounds,"  at  Clockborough,  which  she  had  let; 
but  after  she  returned  from  abroad  I  learned  from 
Mrs.  Saltram  that  the  lease  had  fallen  in  and  that 
she  had  gone  down  to  resume  possession.  I  could 
see  the  faded  red  livery,  the  big  square  shoulders, 
the  high-walled  garden  of  this  decent  abode.  As 
the  rumble  of  dissolution  grew  louder  the  suitor 
would  have  pressed  his  suit,  and  I  found  myself 
hoping  that  the  politics  of  the  late  mayor's  widow 
would  not  be  such  as  to  enjoin  upon  her  to  ask  him 
to  dinner  ;  perhaps  indeed  I  went  so  far  as  to  hope 
that  they  would  be  such  as  to  put  all  countenance 
out  of  the  question.  I  tried  to  focus  the  page,  in 
the  daily  airing,  as  he  perhaps  even  pushed  the 
bath-chair  over  somebody's  toes.  I  was  destined 
to  hear,  however,  through  Mrs.  Saltram  (who,  I 
afterward  learned,  was  in  correspondence  with 
Lady  Coxon's  housekeeper)  that  Gravener  was 
known  to  have  spoken  of  the  habitation  I  had  in 
my  eye  as  the  pleasantest  thing  at  Clockborough. 
On  his  part,  I  was  sure,  this  was  the  voice  not  of 
envy  but  of  experience.  The  vivid  scene  was  now 
peopled,  and  I  could  see  him  in  the  old-time 
garden  with  Miss  Anvoy,  who  would  be  certain, 
and  very  justly,  to  think  him  good-looking.  It 
would  be  too  much  to  say  that  I  was  troubled  by 
this  evocation  ;  but  I  seem  to  remember  the  relief, 
singular  enough,  of  feeling  it  suddenly  brushed 


THE    COXON    FUND  91 

away  by  an  annoyance  really  much  greater ;  an 
annoyance  the  result  of  its  happening  to  come 
over  me  about  that  time  with  a  rush  that  I  was 
simply  ashamed  of  Frank  Saltram.  There  were 
limits  after  all,  and  my  mark  at  last  had  been 
reached. 

I  had  had  my  disgusts,  if  I  may  allow  myself 
to-day  such  an  expression  ;  but  this  was  a  supreme 
revolt.  Certain  things  cleared  up  in  my  mind, 
certain  values  stood  out.  It  was  all  very  well  to 
have  an  unfortunate  temperament;  there  was 
nothing  so  unfortunate  as  to  have,  for  practical 
purposes,  nothing  else.  I  avoided  George  Gravener 
at  this  moment,  and  reflected  that  at  such  a  time  I 
should  do  so  most  effectually  by  leaving  England. 
I  wanted  to  forget  Frank  Saltram — that  was  all. 
I  didn't  want  to  do  any  thing  in  the  world  to  him 
but  that.  Indignation  had  withered  on  the  stalk, 
and  I  felt  that  one  could  pity  him  as  much  as 
one  ought  only  by  never  thinking  of  him  again. 
It  wasn't  for  any  thing  he  had  done  to  me  ;  it  was 
for  something  he  had  done  to  the  Mulvilles. 
Adelaide  had  cried  about  it  for  a  week,  and  her 
husband,  profiting  by  the  example  so  signally  given 
him  of  the  fatal  effect  of  the  want  of  a  character, 
left  the  letter  unanswered.  The  letter,  an  incredible 
one,  addressed  by  Saltram  to  Wimbledon,  during  a 
stay  with  the  Pudneys  at  Ramsgate,  was  the  cen 
tral  feature  of  the  incident  ;  which,  however,  had 
many  features,  each  more  painful  than  whichever 
other  we  compared  it  with.  The  Pudneys  had 


92  THE    COXON    FUND 

behaved  shockingly,  but  that  was  no  excuse.  Base 
ingratitude,  gross  indecency — one  had  one's  choice 
only  of  such  formulas  as  that  the  more  they  fitted 
the  less  they  gave  one  rest.  These  are  dead  aches 
now,  and  I  am  under  no  obligation,  thank  Heaven, 
to  be  definite  about  the  business.  There  are  things 
which,  if  I  had  had  to  tell  them — well,  I  wouldn't 
have  told  my  story. 

I  went  abroad  for  the  general  election,  and  if  I 
don't  know  how  much,  on  the  Continent,  I  forgot, 
I  at  least  know  how  much  I  missed  him.  At  a 
distance,  in  a  foreign  land,  ignoring,  abjuring, 
unlearning  him,  I  discovered  what  he  had  done  for 
me.  I  owed  him,  oh,  unmistakably  !  certain  noble 
conceptions.  I  had  lighted  my  little  taper  at  his 
smoky  lamp,  and  lo  !  it  continued  to  twinkle.  But 
the  light  it  gave  me  just  showed  me  how  much 
more  I  wanted.  I  was  pursued  of  course  by  letters 
from  Mrs.  Saltram,  which  I  didn't  scruple  not  to 
read,  though  I  was  duly  conscious  that  her  embar 
rassments  would  now  be  of  the  gravest.  I  sacri 
ficed  to  propriety  by  simply  putting  them  away, 
and  this  is  how,  one  day  as  my  absence  drew  to 
an  end,  my  eye,  as  I  rummaged  in  my  desk  for 
another  paper,  was  caught  by  a  name  on  a  leaf 
that  had  detached  itself  from  the  packet.  The 
allusion  was  to  Miss  Anvoy,  who,  it  appeared,  was 
engaged  to  be  married  to  Mr.  George  Gravener  ; 
and  the  news  was  two  months  old.  A  direct 
question  of  Mrs.  Saltram's  had  thus  remained 
unanswered — she  had  enquired  of  me  in  a  post- 


THE    COXON    FUND  93 

script  what  sort  of  man  this  Mr.  Gravener  might  be. 
This  Mr.  Gravener  had  been  triumphantly  returned 
for  Clockborough,  in  the  interest  of  the  party  that 
had  swept  the  country,  so  that  I  might  easily  have 
referred  Mrs.  Saltram  to  the  journals  of  the  day. 
But  when  I  at  last  wrote  to  her  that  I  was  coming 
home  and  would  discharge  my  accumulated  burden 
by  seeing  her,  I  remarked  in  regard  to  her  question 
that  she  must  really  put  it  to  Miss  Anvoy. 


VI 

I  HAD  almost  avoided  the  general  election,  but 
some  of  its  consequences,  on  my  return,  had 
smartly  to  be  faced.  The  season,  in  London, 
began  to  breathe  again  and  to  flap  its  folded 
wings.  Confidence,  under  the  new  ministry,  was 
understood  to  be  reviving,  and  one  of  the  symp 
toms,  in  the  social  body,  was  a  recovery  of  appe 
tite.  People  once  more  fed  together,  and  it 
happened  that,  one  Saturday  night,  at  somebody's 
house,  I  fed  with  George  Gravener.  When  the 
ladies  left  the  room  I  moved  up  to  where  he  sat 
and  offered  him  my  congratulation.  "'On  my 
election  ?  "  he  asked,  after  a  moment  ;  whereupon 
I  feigned,  jocosely,  not  to  have  heard  of  his  elec 
tion  and  to  be  alluding  to  something  much  more 
important,  the  rumor  of  his  engagement.  I  dare 
say  I  colored,  however,  for  his  political  victory 


94  THE    COXON    FUND 

had  momentarily  passed  out  of  my  mind.  What 
was  present  to  it  was  that  he  was  to  marry  that 
beautiful  girl  ;  and  yet  his  question  made  me  con 
scious  of  some  discomposure — I  had  not  intended 
to  put  that  before  every  thing.  He  himself  indeed 
ought  gracefully  to  have  done  so,  and  I  remember 
thinking  the  whole  man  was  in  this  assumption 
that  in  expressing  my  sense  of  what  he  had  won 
I  had  fixed  my  thoughts  on  his  "  seat."  We 
straightened  the  matter  out,  and  he  was  so  much 
lighter  in  hand  than  I  had  lately  seen  him  that  his 
spirits  might  well  have  been  fed  from  a  double 
source.  He  was  so  good  as  to  say  that  he  hoped  I 
should  soon  make  the  acquaintance  of  Miss  Anvoy, 
who,  with  her  aunt,  was  presently  coming  up  to 
town.  Lad}*-  Coxon,  in  the  country,  had  been 
seriously  unwell,  and  this  had  delayed  their 
arrival.  I  told  him  I  had  heard  the  marriage 
would  be  a  splendid  one  ;  on  which,  brightened 
and  humanized  by  his  luck,  he  laughed  and  said  : 
"  Do  you  mean  for  her  f  "  When  I  had  again 
explained  what  I  meant  he  went  on  :  "  Oh,  she's 
an  American,  but  you'd  scarcely  know  it  ;  unless, 
perhaps,"  he  added,  "  by  her  being  used  to  more 
money  than  most  girls  in  England,  even  the 
daughters  of  rich  men.  That  wouldn't  in  the  least 
do  for  a  fellow  like  me,  you  know,  if  it  wasn't  for 
the  great  liberality  of  her  father.  He  really  has 
been  most  kind,  and  every  thing  is  quite  satis 
factory."  He  added  that  his  eldest  brother  had 
taken  a  tremendous  fancy  to  her,  and  that  during  a 


THE    COXON    FUND  95 

recent  visit  at  Coldfield  she  had  nearly  won  over 
Lady  Maddock.  I  gathered  from  something  he 
dropped  later  that  the  free-handed  gentleman 
beyond  the  seas  had  not  made  a  settlement,  but 
had  given  a  handsome  present,  and  was  apparently 
to  be  looked  to,  across  the  water,  for  other  favors. 
People  are  simplified  alike  by  great  contentments 
and  great  yearnings,  and  whether  or  no  it  was 
Gravener's  directness  that  begot  my  own,  I  seem 
to  recall  that  in  some  turn  taken  by  our  talk  lie 
almost  imposed  it  on  me  as  an  act  of  decorum  to 
ask  if  Miss  Anvoy  had  also,  by  chance,  expecta 
tions  from  her  aunt.  My  enquiry  drew  out  that 
Lady  Coxon,  who  was  the  oddest  of  women, 
would  have  in  any  contingency  to  act  under  her 
late  husband's  will,  which  was  odder  still  ;  saddling 
her  with  a  mass  of  queer  obligations  complicated 
with  queer  loopholes.  There  were  several  dreary 
people — Coxon  cousins,  old  maids — to  whom  she 
would  have  more  or  less  to  minister.  Gravener 
laughed,  without  saying  no,  when  I  suggested  that 
the  young  lady  might  come  in  through  a  loophole  ; 
then  suddenly,  as  if  he  suspected  that  I  had  turned 
a  lantern  on  him,  he  exclaimed  quite  dryly  : 
"  That's  all  rot — one  is  moved  by  other  springs  !  " 
A  fortnight  later,  at  Lady  Coxon's  own  house,  I 
understood  well  enough  the  springs  one  was  moved 
by.  Gravener  had  spoken  of  me  there  as  an  old 
friend,  and  I  received  a  gracious  invitation  to  dine. 
The  knight's  widow  was  again  indisposed — she 
had  succumbed  at  the  eleventh  hour;  so  that  I 


96  THE    COXON    FUND 

found  Miss  Anvoy  bravely  playing  hostess,  with 
out  even  Gravener's  help,  inasmuch  as,  to  make 
matters  worse,  he  had  just  sent  up  word  that  the 
House,  the  insatiable  House,  with  which  he  sup 
posed  he  had  contracted  for  easier  terms,  positively 
declined  to  release  him.  I  was  struck  with  the 
courage,  the  grace,  and  gayety  of  the  young  lady 
left  to  deal  unaided  with  the  possibilities  of  the 
Regent's  Park.  I  did  what  I  could  to  help  her  to 
keep  them  down,  or  up,  after  I  had  recovered  from 
the  confusion  of  seeing  her  slightly  disconcerted 
at  perceiving  in  the  guest  introduced  by  her  in 
tended  the  gentleman  with  whom  she  had  had  that 
talk  about  Frank  Sal  tram.  I  had  at  that  moment 
my  first  glimpse  of  the  fact  that  she  was  a  person 
who  could  carry  a  responsibility;  but  I  leave  the 
reader  to  judge  of  my  sense  of  the  aggravation, 
for  either  of  us,  of  such  a  burden  when  I  heard  the 
servant  announce  Mrs.  Saltram.  From  what  im 
mediately  passed  between  the  two  ladies  I  gathered 
that  the  latter  had  been  sent  for  post-haste  to  fill 
the  gap  created  by  the  absence  of  the  mistress  of 
the  house.  "  Good  !  "  I  exclaimed, "  she  will  be  put 
by  me/"  and  my  apprehension  was  promptly  jus 
tified.  Mrs.  Saltram  taken  in  to  dinner,  and  taken 
in  as  a  consequence  of  an  appeal  to  her  amiability, 
was  Mrs.  Saltram  with  a  vengeance.  I  asked 
myself  what  Miss  Anvoy  meant  by  doing  such 
things,  but  the  only  answer  I  arrived  at  was  that 
Gravener  was  verily  fortunate.  She  had  not  hap 
pened  to  tell  him  of  her  visit  to  Upper  Baker 


THE    COXOX   FUND  97 

Street,  but  she  would  certainly  tell  him  to-morrow; 
not  indeed  that  this  would  make  him  like  any 
better  her  having  had  the  simplicity  to  invite  such 
a  person  as  Mrs.  Sal  tram  on  such  an  occasion.  I 
reflected  that  I  had  never  seen  a  young  woman  put 
such  ignorance  into  her  cleverness,  such  freedom 
into  her  modesty  ;  this,  I  think,  was  when,  after 
dinner,  she  said  to  rne  frankly,  with  almost  jubilant 
mirth  :  "  Oh,  you  don't  admire  Mrs.  Saltram  ?  " 
Why  should  I  ?  This  was  truly  an  innocent 
maiden.  I  had  briefly  to  consider  before  I  could 
reply  that  my  objection  to  the  lady  in  question  was 
the  objection  often  formulated  in  regard  to  persons 
met  at  the  social  board — I  knew  all  her  stories. 
Then,  as  Miss  Anvoy  remained  momentarily  vague, 
I  added  : 

"About  her  husband." 
"  Oh,  yes,  but  there  are  some  new  ones." 
"  None  for  me.    Oh,  novelty  would  be  pleasant!  " 
"  Doesn't  it  appear  that  of  late  he  has  been  par 
ticularly  horrid  ?  " 

"  His  fluctuations  don't  matter,"  I  replied,  "  for 
at  night  all  cats  are  gray.  You  saw  the  shade  of 
this  one  the  night  we  waited  for  him  together. 
What  will  you  have  ?  He  has  no  dignity." 

Miss  Anvoy,  who  had  been  introducing  with  her 
American  distinctness,  looked  encouragingly  round 
at  some  of  the  combinations  she  had  risked.  "It's 
too  bad  I  can't  see  him." 

"  You  mean  Gravener  won't  let  you  ?  " 
"I  haven't  asked  him.  He  lets  me  do  every  thing." 
7 


98  THE    COXON  FUND 

"  But  you  know  lie  knows  him  and  wonders  what 
some  of  us  see  in  him." 

"  We  haven't  happened  to  talk  of  him,"  the  girl 
said. 

"  Get  him  to  take  you  out  some  day  to  see  the 
Mulvilles." 

"  I  thought  Mr.  Saltram  had  thrown  the  Mul 
villes  over." 

"  Utterly.  But  that  won't  prevent  his  being 
planted  there  again,  to  bloom  like  a  rose,  within  a 
month  or  two." 

Miss  Anvoy  thought  a  moment.  Then,  "  I 
should  like  to  see  them,"  she  said,  with  her  foster 
ing  smile. 

"  They're  tremendously  worth  it.  You  mustn't 
miss  them." 

"  I'll  make  George  take  me,"  she  went  on,  as  Mrs. 
Saltram  came  up  to  interrupt  us.  The  girl  smiled 
at  her  as  kindly  as  she  had  smiled  at  me,  and, 
addressing  the  question  to  her,  continued  :  "But 
the  chance  of  a  lecture — one  of  the  wonderful  lec 
tures  ?  Isn't  there  another  course  announced  ?  " 

"  Another  ?  There  are  about  thirty  !  "  I  ex 
claimed,  turning  away  and  feeling  Mrs.  Saltram's 
little  eyes  in  my  back.  A  few  days  after  this  I 
heard  that  Gravener's  marriage  was  near  at  hand 
— was  settled  for  Whitsuntide  :  but  as  I  had  re 
ceived  no  invitation  I  doubted  it,  and  presently 
there  came  to  me  in  fact  the  report  of  a  postpone 
ment.  Something  was  the  matter  ;  what  was  the 
matter  was  supposed  to  be  that  Lady  Coxon  was 


THE    COXON   FUND  99 

now  critically  ill.  I  had  called  on  her  after  my 
dinner  in  the  Regent's  Park,  but  I  had  neither  seen 
her  nor  seen  Miss  Anvoy.  I  forget  to-day  the 
exact  order  in  which,  at  this  period,  certain  inci 
dents  occurred  and  the  particular  stage  at  which  it 
suddenly  struck  me,  making  me  catch  my  breath 
a  little,  that  the  progression,  the  acceleration,  was 
for  all  the  world  that  of  a  drama.  This  was 
probably  rather  late  in  the  day,  and  the  exact 
order  doesn't  matter.  What  had  already  occurred 
was  some  accident  determining  a  more  patient 
wait.  George  Gravener,  whom  I  met  again,  in 
fact  told  me  as  much,  but  without  signs  of  per 
turbation.  Lady  Coxon  had  to  be  constantly  at 
tended  to,  and  there  were  other  good  reasons  as 
well.  Lady  Coxon  had  to  be  so  constantly  attended 
to  that,  on  the  occasion  of  a  second  attempt  in  the 
Regent's  Park,  I  equally  failed  to  obtain  a  sight  of 
her  niece.  I  judged  it  discreet  under  the  circum 
stances  not  to  make  a  third  ;  but  this  didn't  matter, 
for  it  was  through  Adelaide  Mulville  that  the  side 
wind  of  the  comedy,  though  I  was  at  first  unwit 
ting,  began  to  reach  me.  I  went  to  Wimbledon 
at  times  because  Saltram  was  there,  and  I  went  at 
others  because  he  was  not.  The  Pudneys,  who 
had  taken  him  to  Birmingham,  had  already  got 
rid  of  him,  and  we  had  a  horrible  consciousness 
of  his  wandering  roofless,  in  dishonor,  about  the 
smoky  Midlands,  almost  as  the  injured  Lear  wan 
dered  on  the  storm-lashed  heath.  His  room,  up 
stairs,  had  been  lately  done  up  (I  could  hear  the 


100  THE    COXON    FUND 

crackle  of  the  new  chintz),  and  the  difference  only 
made  his  smirches  and  bruises,  his  splendid  tainted 
genius,  the  more  tragic.  If  lie  wasn't  barefoot  in 
the  mire,  he  was  sure  to  be  unconventionally  shod. 
These  were  the  things  Adelaide  and  I,  who  were 
old  enough  friends  to  stare  at  each  other  in  silence, 
talked  about  when  we  didn't  speak.  When  we 
spoke  it  was  only  about  the  brilliant  girl  George 
Gravener  was' to  marry,  whom  he  had  brought  out 
the  other  Sunday.  I  could  see  that  this  presenta 
tion  had  been  happy,  for  Mrs.  Mulville  commem 
orated  it  in  the  only  way  in  which  she  ever  ex 
pressed  her  confidence  in  a  new  relation.  aSlie 
likes  me — she  likes  me":  her  native  humility  exulted 
in  that  measure  of  success.  We  all  knew  for  our 
selves  how  she  liked  those  who  liked  her,  and  as 
regards  Ruth  Anvoy  she  was  more  easily  won  over 
than  Lady  Maddock. 


VII 

ONE  of  the  consequences,  for  the  Mulvilles,  of 
the  sacrifices  they  made  for  Frank  Saltram  was 
that  they  had  to  give  up  their  carriage.  Adelaide 
drove  gently  into  London  in  a  one-horse  greenish 
thing,  an  early  Victorian  landau,  hired,  near  at 
hand,  imaginatively,  from  a  broken-down  job 
master  whose  wife  was  in  consumption — a  vehicle 
that  made  people  turn  round  all  the  more  when  her 


THE    COXON    FUND  101 

pensioner  sat  beside  her  in  a  soft  white  hat  and  a 
shawl,  one  of  her  own.  This  was  his  position,  and 
I  dare  say  his  costume,  when  on  an  afternoon  in 
July  she  went  to  return  Miss  Anvoy's  visit.  The 
wheel  of  fate  had  now  revolved,  and  amid  silences 
deep  and  exhaustive,  compunctions  and  condona 
tions  alike  unutterable,  Saltram  was  reinstated. 
Was  it  in  pride  or  in  penance  that  Mrs.  Mulville 
began  immediately  to  drive  him  about  ?  If  he  was 
ashamed  of  his  ingratitude,  she  might  have  been 
ashamed  of  her  forgiveness  ;  but  she  was  incor 
rigibly  capable  of  liking  him  to  be  seen  strikingly 
seated  in  the  landau  while  she  was  in  shops  or  with 
her  acquaintance.  However,  if  he  was  in  the 
pillory  for  twenty  minutes  in  the  Regent's  Park  (I 
mean  at  Lady  Coxon's  door,  while  her  companion 
paid  her  call)  it  was,  not  for  the  further  humiliation 
of  any  one  concerned  that  she  presently  came  out 
for  him  in  person,  not  even  to  show  either  of  them 
what  a  fool  she  was  that  she  drew  him  in  to  be 
introduced  to  the  clever  young  American.  Her 
account  of  the  introduction  I  had  in  its  order,  but 
before  that,  very  late  in  the  season,  under  Grave- 
ner's  auspices,  I  met  Miss  Anvoy  at  tea  at  the 
House  of  Commons.  The  member  for  Clock- 
borough  had  gathered  a  group  of  pretty  ladies,  and 
the  Mulvilles  were  not  of  the  party.  On  the  great 
terrace,  as  I  strolled  off  a  little  with  her,  the  guest 
of  honor  immediately  exclaimed  to  me  ;  "  I've  seen 
him,  you  know — I've  seen  him  ! "  She  told  me 
about  Sal  tram's  call. 


102  THE    COXON   FUND 

"  And  how  did  you  find  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  so  strange  !  " 

"  You  didn't  like  him  ?  " 

"I  can't  tell  till  I  see  him  again." 

"You  want  to  do  that?" 

She  was  silent  a  moment.     "  Immensely  !  " 

We  stopped  ;  I  fancied  she  had  become  aware 
Gravener  was  looking  at  us.  She  turned  back 
toward  the  knot  of  the  others,  and  I  said  :  "  Dis 
like  him  as  much  as  you  will — I  see  you  are 
bitten." 

"  Bitten  ?  "     I  thought  she  colored  a  little. 

"  Oh,  it  doesn't  matter  !  "  I  laughed  ;  "  one 
doesn't  die  of  it." 

"  I  hope  I  sha'n't  die  of  any  thing  before  I've 
seen  more  of  Mrs.  Mulville."  I  rejoiced  with  her 
over  plain  Adelaide,  whom  she  pronounced  the 
loveliest  woman  she  had  met  in  England  ;  but 
before  \ve  separated  I  remarked  to  her  that  it  was 
an  act  of  mere  humanity  to  warn  her  that,  if  she 
should  see  more  of  Frank  Saltram  (which  would  be 
likely  to  follow  on  any  increase  of  acquaintance 
with  Mrs.  Mulville),  she  might  find  herself  flatten 
ing  her  nose  against  the  clear,  hard  pane  of  an 
eternal  question — that  of  the  relative  importance 
of  virtue.  She  replied  that  this  was  surely  a  sub 
ject  on  which  one  took  every  thing  for  granted  ; 
whereupon  I  admitted  that  I  had  perhaps  expressed 
myself  ill.  What  I  referred  to  was  what  I  had 
referred  to  the  night  we  met  in  Upper  Baker 
Street — the  importance  relative  (relative  to  virtue) 


THE    COXON    FUND  103 

of  other  gifts.  She  asked  me  if  I  called  virtue  a 
gift — as  if  it  were  handed  to  us  in  a  parcel  on  our 
birthday  ;  and  I  declared  that  this  very  enquiry 
showed  me  the  problem  had  already  caught  her  by 
the  skirt.  She  would  have  help,  however — help 
that  I  myself  had  once  had,  in  resisting  its  tend 
ency  to  make  one  cross. 

"  What  help  do  you  mean  ?  " 
"  That  of  the  member  for  Clockborough." 
She  stared,  smiled,  then  exclaimed  ;  "  Why,  my 
idea  has  been  to  help  him  !  " 

She  had  helped  him — I  had  his  own  word  for 
it  that  at  Clockborough  her  bedevilment  of  the 
voters  had  really  put  him  in.  She  would  do  so 
doubtless  again  and  again,  but  I  heard  the  very 
next  month  that  this  fine  faculty  had  undergone  a 
temporary  eclipse.  News  of  the  catastrophe  first 
came  to  me  from  Mrs.  Saltram,  and  it  was  after 
ward  confirmed  at  Wimbledon  ;  poor  Miss  Anvoy 
was  in  trouble — great  disasters  in  America  had 
suddenly  summoned  her  home.  Her  father,  in 
New  York,  had  had  reverses — lost  so  much  money 
that  it  was  really  provoking  as  showing  how  much 
he  had  had.  It  was  Adelaide  who  told  me  that 
she  had  gone  off  alone  at  less  than  a  week's  notice. 
"  Alone  ?  Gravener  has  permitted  that?  " 
"What  will  you  have?  The  House  of  Com 
mons  !  " 

I'm  afraid  I  cursed  the  House  of  Commons  ;  I 
was  so  much  interested.  Of  course  he  would 
follow  her  as  soon  as  he  was  free  to  make  her  his 


104  THE    COXON   FUND 

wife  ;  only  she  mightn't  now  be  able  to  bring  him 
any  thing  like  the  marriage-portion  of  which  he 
had  begun  by  having  the  virtual  promise.  Mrs. 
Mulville  let  me  know  what  was  already  said  ;  she 
was  charming,  this  American  girl,  but  really  these 
American  fathers  !  What  was  a  man  to  do  ?  Mr. 
Saltram,  according  to  Mrs.  Mulville,  was  of  opinion 
that  a  man  was  never  to  suffer  his  relation  to 
money  to  become  a  spiritual  relation,  but  was  to 
keep  it  wholesomely  mechanical.  "  Moi  pas  com- 
prendre!"  I  commented  on  this;  in  rejoinder  to 
which  Adelaide,  with  her  beautiful  sympathy,  ex 
plained  that  she  supposed  he  simply  meant  that 
the  thing  was  to  use  it,  don't  you  know  ?  but  not 
to  think  too  much  about  it.  "  To  take  it,  but  not 
to  thank  you  for  it?"  I  still  more  profanely 
enquired.  For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  afterward  she 
wouldn't  look  at  me,  but  this  didn't  prevent  my 
asking  her  what  had  been  the  result,  that  afternoon 
in  the  Regent's  Park,  of  her  taking  our  friend  to 
see  Miss  Anvoy. 

"  Oh,  so  charming  !  "  she  answered,  brightening. 
"  He  said  he  recognized  in  her  a  nature  he  could 
absolutely  trust." 

"  Yes,  but  I'm  speaking  of  the  effect  on  her 
self." 

Mrs.  Mulville  was  silent  an  instant.  "  It  was 
every  thing  one  could  wish." 

Something  in  her  tone  made  me  laugh.  "  Do 
you  mean  she  gave  him  something  ?  " 

"  Well,  since  you  ask  me  !  " 


THE    COXON    FUND  105 

"  Right  there— on  the  spot  ?  " 

Again  poor  Adelaide  faltered.  "It  was  to  me 
of  course  she  gave  it." 

I  stared  ;  somehow  I  couldn't  see  the  scene. 
"  Do  you  mean  a  sum  of  money  ? " 

"It  was  very  handsome."  Now  at  last  she  met 
my  eyes,  though  I  could  see  it  was  with  an  effort. 
"Thirty  pounds." 

"  Straight  out  of  her  pocket  ?  " 

"  Out  of  the  drawer  of  a  table  at  which  she  had 
been  writing.  She  just  slipped  the  folded  notes  into 
my  hand.  He  wasn't  looking  ;  it  was  while  he  was 
going  back  to  the  carriage.  Oh,"  said  Adelaide  re 
assuringly,  "  I  dole  it  out  !  "  The  dear  practical 
soul  thought  my  agitation,  for  I  confess  I  was 
agitated,  had  reference  to  the  administration  of  the 
money.  Her  disclosure  made  me  for  a  moment 
muse  violently,  and  I  dare  say  that  during  that 
moment  I  wondered  if  any  thing  else  in  the  world 
makes  people  so  indelicate  as  unselfishness.  I 
uttered,  I  suppose,  some  vague  synthetic  cry,  for 
she  went  on  as  if  she  had  had  a  glimpse  of  my 
inward  amaze  at  such  episodes.  "  I  assure  you, 
my  dear  friend,  he  was  in  one  of  his  happy 
hours." 

But  I  wasn't  thinking  of  that.  "  Truly,  indeed, 
these  Americans  !  "  I  said.  "  With  her  father 
in  the  very  act,  as  it  were,  of  swindling  her 
betrothed  !  " 

Mrs.  Mulville  stared.  "  Oh !  I  suppose  Mr.  Anvoy 
has  scarcely  failed  on  purpose.  Very  likely  they 


106  THE    COXON    FUND 

won't  be  able  to  keep  it  up,  but  there  it  was,  and  it 
was  a  very  beautiful  impulse." 

"  You  say  Saltram  was  very  fine  ?  " 

"  Beyond  every  thing.  He  surprised  even 
me." 

"  And  I  know  what  you?ve  heard."  After  a 
moment  I  added  :  "  Had  he  peradventure  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  money  in  the  table-drawer  ?  " 

At  this  my  companion  honestly  flushed.  "  How 
can  you  be  so  cruel  when  you  know  how  little  he 
calculates  ?  " 

"  Forgive  me,  I  do  know  it.  But  you  tell  me 
things  that  act  on  my  nerves.  I'm  sure  he  hadn't 
caught  a  glimpse  of  any  thing  but  some  splendid 
idea." 

Mrs.  Mulville  brightly  concurred.  "And  per 
haps  even  of  her  beautiful,  listening  face." 

"  Perhaps  even  !     And  what  was  it  all  about?  " 

"  His  talk  ?  It  was  d  propos  of  her  engagement, 
which  I  had  told  him  about ;  the  idea  of  marriage, 
the  philosophy,  the  poetry,  the  sublimity  of  it."  It 
was  impossible  wholly  to  restrain  one's  mirth  at  this, 
and  some  rude  ripple  that  I  emitted  again  caused 
my  companion  to  admonish  me.  "  It  sounds  a  little 
stale,  but  you  know  his  freshness." 

"  Of  illustration  ?     Indeed  I  do  !  " 

"And  how  he  has  always  been  right  on  that 
great  question." 

"  On  what  great  question,  dear  lady,  hasn't  he 
been  right  ?  " 

"  Of  what  other  great  men  can  you  equally  say 


THE    COXOX    FUND  107 

it?  I  mean  that  he  has  never,  but  never,  had  a 
deviation  ?  "  Mrs.  Mulville  exultantly  demanded. 

I  tried  to  think  of  some  other  great  man,  but 
I  had  to  give  it  up.  "  Didn't  Miss  Anvoy  express 
her  satisfaction  in  any  less  diffident  way  than  by 
her  charming  present  ?  "  I  was  reduced  to  enquiring 
instead. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  she  overflowed  to  me  on  the  steps  while 
he  was  getting  into  the  carriage."  These  words 
somehow  brushed  up  a  picture  of  Saltram's  big 
shawled  back  as  he  hoisted  himself  into  the  green 
landau.  "  She  said  she  was  not  disappointed," 
Adelaide  pursued. 

I  meditated  a  moment.  "  Did  he  wear  his 
shawl  ?  " 

"  His  shawl  ?"     She  had  not  even  noticed. 

"  I  mean  yours." 

"  He  looked  very  nice,  and  you  know  he's  really 
clean.  Miss  Anvoy  used  such  a  remarkable  expres 
sion — she  said  his  mind  is  like  a  crystal ! " 

I  pricked  up  my  ears.     "  A  crystal  ?  " 

"  Suspended  in  the  moral  world — swinging  and 
shining  and  flashing  there.  She's  monstrously 
clever,  you  know." 

I  reflected  again.     "  Monstrously  ! " 


VIII 

GEOEGE  GKAVENER  didn't  follow  her,  for  late  in 
September,  after  the  House  had  risen,  I  met  him 
in  a  railway-carriage.  He  was  coming  up  from 
Scotland,  and  I  had  just  quitted  the  abode  of  a 
relation  who  lived  near  Durham.  The  current  of 
travel  back  to  London  was  not  yet  strong  ;  at  any 
rate,  on  entering  the  compartment,  I  found  he  had 
had  it  for  some  time  to  himself.  We  fared  in 
company,  and  though  he  had  a  blue-book  in  his 
lap  and  the  open  jaws  of  his  bag  threatened  me 
with  the  white  teeth  of  confused  papers,  we  inevi 
tably,  we  even  at  last  sociably,  conversed.  I  saw 
that  things  were  not  well  Avith  him,  but  I  asked 
no  question  until  something  dropped  by  himself 
made,  as  it  had  made  on  another  occasion,  an 
absence  of  curiosity  invidious.  He  mentioned  that 
he  was  worried  about  his  good  old  friend  Lady 
Coxon,  who,  with  her  niece  likely  to  be  detained 
some  time  in  America,  lay  seriously  ill  at  Clock- 
borough,  much  on  his  mind  and  on  his  hands. 

"  Ah,  Miss  Anvoy's  in  America?" 

"  Her  father  has  got  into  a  horrid  hole  ;  lost  no 
end  of  money." 

I  hesitated,  after  expressing  due  concern,  but  I 
presently  said  :  "  I  hope  that  raises  no  objection 
to  your  marriage." 


THE    COXON    FUND  109 

"  None  whatever  ;  moreover,  it's  my  trade  to 
meet  objections.  But  it  may  create  tiresome 
delays,  of  which  there  have  been  too  many,  from 
various  causes,  already.  Lady  Coxon  got  very 
bad,  then  she  got  much  better.  Then  Mr.  Anvoy 
suddenly  began  to  totter,  and  now  he  seems  quite 
on  his  back.  I'm  afraid  he's  really  in  for  some 
big  reverse.  Lady  Coxon  is  worse  again,  awfully 
upset  by  the  news  from  America,  and  she  sends 
me  word  that  she  must  have  Ruth.  How  can  I 
give  her  Ruth  ?  I  haven't  got  Ruth  myself  !  " 

"  Surely  you  haven't  lost  her  ?  "  I  smiled. 

"  She's  every  thing  to  her  wretched  father.  She 
writes  me  every  post — telling  me  to  smooth  her 
aunt's  pillow.  I've  other  things  to  smooth  ;  but 
the  old  lady,  save  for  her  servants,  is  really  alone. 
She  won't  receive  her  Coxon  relations,  because 
she's  angry  at  so  much  of  her  money  going  to 
them.  Besides,  she's  hopelessly  mad,"  said  Grave- 
ner,  very  frankly. 

I  don't  remember  whether  it  was  this,  or  what 
it  was,  that  made  me  ask  if  she  had  not  such  an 
appreciation  of  Mrs.  Sal  tram  as  might  render  that 
active  person  of  some  use. 

He  gave  me  a  cold  glance,  asking  me  what  had 
put  Mrs.  Saltram  into  my  head,  and  I  replied  that 
she  was  unfortunately  never  out  of  it.  I  happened 
to  remember  the  wonderful  accounts  she  had  given 
me  of  the  kindness  Lady  Coxon  had  shown  her. 
Gravener  declared  this  to  be  false  ;  Lady  Coxon, 
who  didn't  care  for  her,  hadn't  seen  her  three 


110  THE    COXON   FUND 

times.  The  only  foundation  for  it  was  that  Miss 
Anvoy,  who  used,  poor  girl,  to  chuck  money  about 
in  a  manner  she  must  now  regret,  had  for  an  hour 
seen  in  the  miserable  woman  (you  could  never 
know  what  she  would  see  in  people)  an  interesting 
pretext  for  the  liberality  with  which  her  nature 
overflowed.  But  even  Miss  Anvoy  was  now  quite 
tired  of  her.  Gravener  told  me  more  about  the 
crash  in  New  York  and  the  annoyance  it  had  been 
to  him,  and  we  also  glanced  here  and  there  in 
other  directions  ;  but  by  the  time  we  got  to  Don- 
caster  the  principal  thing  he  had  communicated 
was  that  he  was  keeping  something  back.  We 
stopped  at  that  station,  and,  at  the  carriage-door, 
someone  made  a  movement  to  get  in.  Gravener 
uttered  a  sound  of  impatience,  and  I  said  to  myself 
that  but  for  this  I  should  have  had  the  secret. 
Then  the  intruder,  for  some  reason,  spared  us  his 
company  ;  we  started  afresh,  and  my  hope  of  the 
secret  returned.  Gravener  remained  silent,  how 
ever,  and  I  pretended  to  go  to  sleep  ;  in  fact,  in 
discouragement,  I  really  dozed.  When  I  opened 
my  eyes  I  found  he  was  looking  at  me  with  an 
injured  air.  He  tossed  away  with  some  vivacity 
the  remnant  of  a  cigarette  and  then  he  said  :  "  If 
you're  not  too  sleepy  I  want  to  put  you  a  case." 
I  answered  that  I  would  make  every  effort  to 
attend,  and  I  felt  it  was  going  to  be  interesting 
when  he  went  on  :  "  As  I  told  you  a  while  ago, 
Lady  Coxon,  poor  dear  !  is  a  maniac."  His  tone 
had  much  behind  it — was  full  of  promise.  I  in- 


THE    COXON   FUND  111 

quired  if  her  ladyship's  misfortune  were  a  feature 
of  her  malady  or  only  of  her  character,  and  he 
replied  that  it  was  a  product  of  both.  The  case 
he  wanted  to  put  to  me  was  a  matter  on  which  it 
would  interest  him  to  have  the  impression — the 
judgment,  he  might  also  say — of  another  person. 
"  I  mean  of  the  average  intelligent  man,"  he  said  ; 
"  but  you  see  I  take  what  I  can  get."  There  would 
be  the  technical,  the  strictly  legal  view  ;  then 
there  would  be  the  way  the  question  would  strike 
a  man  of  the  world.  He  had  lighted  another 
cigarette  while  he  talked,  and  I  saw  he  was  glad 
to  have  it  to  handle  when  he  brought  out  at  last, 
with  a  laugh  slightly  artificial,  "In  fact  it's  a  sub 
ject  on  which  Miss  Anvoy  and  I  are  pulling 
different  ways." 

"And  you  want  me  to  pronounce  between  you  ? 
I  pronounce  in  advance  for  Miss  Anvoy." 

"In  advance — that's  quite  right.  That's  how  I 
pronounced  when  I  asked  her  to  marry  me.  But 
my  story  will  interest  you  only  so  far  as  your 
mind  is  not  made  up."  Gravener  puffed  his  cigar 
ette  a  minute  and  then  continued  :  "  Are  you 
familiar  with  the  idea  of  the  Endowment  of 
Research  ?  " 

"  Of  Research  ?  "     I  was  at  sea  for  a  moment. 

"  I  give  you  Lady  Coxon's  phrase.  She  has  it 
on  the  brain." 

"  She  wishes  to  endow " 

"  Some  earnest  and  disinterested  seeker,"  Grave 
ner  said.  "It  was  a  sketchy  design  of  her  late 


112  THE    COXON   FUND 

husband's,  and  he  handed  it  on  to  her  ;  setting 
apart  in  his  will  a  sum  of  money  of  which  she  was 
to  enjoy  the  interest  for  life,  but  of  which,  should 
she  eventually  see  her  opportunity, — the  matter 
was  left  largely  to  her  discretion, — she  would  best 
honor  his  memory  by  determining  the  exemplary 
public  use.  This  sum  of  money,  no  less  than 
thirteen  thousand  pounds,  was  to  be  called  the 
Coxon  Fund ;  and  poor  Sir  Gregory  evidently 
proposed  to  himself  that  the  Coxon  Fund  should 
cover  his  name  with  glory — be  universally  desired 
and  admired.  He  left  his  wife  a  full  declaration  of 
his  views,  so  far  at  least  as  that  term  may  be  applied 
to  views  vitiated  by  a  vagueness  really  infantine. 
A  little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing,  and  a  good 
citizen  who  happens  to  have  been  an  ass  is  worse 
for  a  community  than  bad  sewerage.  He's  worst 
of  all  when  he's  dead,  because  then  he  can't  be 
stopped.  However,  such  as  they  were,  the  poor 
man's  aspirations  are  now  in  his  wife's  bosom,  or 
fermenting  rather  in  her  foolish  brain  ;  it  lies  with 
her  to  carry  them  out.  But  of  course  she  must 
first  catch  her  hare." 

"Her  earnest,  disinterested  seeker  ?  " 
"  The  flower  that  blushes  unseen  for  want  of 
the  pecuniary  independence  necessary  to  cause  the 
light  that  is  in  it  to  shine  upon  the  human  race. 
The  individual,  in  a  word,  who,  having  the  rest  of 
the  machinery,   the   spiritual,  the  intellectual,   is 
most  hampered  in  his  search." 
"His  search  for  what?" 


THE    COXON   FUND  113 

"For  Moral  Truth.  That's  what  Sir  Gregory 
called  it." 

I  burst  out  laughing.  "  Delightful,  munificent 
Sir  Gregory!  It's  a  charming  idea." 

"  So  Miss  Anvoy  thinks." 

"  Has  she  a  candidate  for  the  Fund  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of  ;  and  she's  perfectly  rea 
sonable  about  it.  But  Lady  Coxon  has  put  the 
matter  before  her,  and  we've  naturally  had  a  lot  of 
talk." 

"Talk  that,  as  you've  so  interestingly  intimated, 
has  landed  you  in  a  disagreement." 

"  She  considers  there's  something  in  it,"  Grave- 
ner  said. 

"  And  you  consider  there's  nothing  ?  " 

"It  seems  to  me  a  puerility  fraught  with  con 
sequences  inevitably  grotesque  and  possibly  im 
moral.  To  begin  with,  fancy  the  idea  of  constitut 
ing  an  endowment  without  establishing  a  tribunal 
— a  bench  of  competent  people,  of  judges." 

"  The  sole  tribunal  is  Lady  Coxon  ?  " 

"  And  any  one  she  chooses  to  invite." 

"But  she  has  invited  you." 

"I'm  not  competent— I  hate  the  thing.  Be 
sides,  she  hasn't.  The  real  history  of  the  matter, 
I  take  it,  is  that  the  inspiration  was  originally  Lady 
Coxon's  own  ;  that  she  infected  him  with  it ;  and 
that  the  flattering  option  left  her  is  simply  his 
tribute  to  her  beautiful,  her  aboriginal  enthusiasm. 
She  came  to  England  forty  years  ago,  a  thin  trans 
cendental  Bostonian,  and  even  her  odd  happy, 
8 


114  THE    COXON   FUND 

frumpy  Clockborough  marriage  never  really 
materialized  her.  She  feels  indeed  that  she  has 
become  very  British — as  if  that,  as  a  process,  as 
a  Werden,  were  conceivable  ;  but  it's  precisely 
what  makes  her  cling  to  the  notion  of  the  (  Fund  ' 
— cling  to  it  as  to  a  link  with  the  ideal." 

"How  can  she  cling,  if  she's  dying ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  how  can  she  act  in  the  matter  ?  " 
my  companion  asked.  "  That's  precisely  the  ques 
tion.  She  can't  !  As  she  has  never  yet  caught 
her  hare,  spied  out  her  lucky  impostor  (how  should 
she,  with  the  life  she  has  led  ?),  her  husband's 
intention  has  come  very  near  lapsing.  His  idea, 
to  do  him  justice,  was  that  it  should  lapse,  if 
exactly  the  right  person,  the  perfect  mixture  of 
genius  and  chill  penury,  should  fail  to  turn  up. 
Ah  !  Lady  Coxon's  very  particular — she  says 
there  must  be  no  mistake." 

I  found  all  this  quite  thrilling — I  took  it  in  with 
avidity.  "  If  she  dies  without  doing  any  thing, 
what  becomes  of  the  money  ?  "  I  demanded. 

"  It  goes  back  to  his  family,  if  she  hasn't  made 
some  other  disposition  of  it." 

"  She  may  do  that,  then — she  may  divert  it?  " 

"  Her  hands  are  not  tied.  The  proof  is  that 
three  months  ago  she  offered  to  make  it  over  to 
her  niece." 

"  For  Miss  Anvoy's  own  use  ?  " 

"  For  Miss  Anvoy's  own  use — on  the  occasion  of 
her  prospective  marriage.  She  was  discouraged — 
the  earnest  seeker  required  so  earnest  a  search. 


THE    COXON    FUND  115 

She  was  afraid  of  making  a  mistake ;  every  one 
she  could  think  of  seemed  either  not  earnest 
enough  or  not  poor  enough.  On  the  receipt  of 
the  first  bad  news  about  Mr.  Anvoy's  affairs  she 
proposed  to  Ruth  to  make  the  sacrifice  for  her. 
As  the  situation  in  New  York  got  worse  she 
repeated  her  proposal." 

"Which  Miss  Anvoy  declined?" 

"  Except  as  a  formal  trust." 

"  You  mean  except  as  committing  herself 
legally  to  place  the  money?" 

"  On  the  head  of  the  deserving  object,  the  great 
man  frustrated,"  said  Gravener.  "  She  only  con 
sents  to  act  in  the  spirit  of  Sir  Gregory's  scheme." 

"  And  you  blame  her  for  that  ?  "  I  asked,  with 
an  excited  smile. 

My  tone  was  not  harsh,  but  he  colored  a  little, 
and  there  was  a  queer  light  in  his  eyes.  "My 
dear  fellow,  if  I  *  blamed '  the  young  lady  I'm 
engaged  to,  I  shouldn't  immediately  say  so  even 
to  so  old  a  friend  as  you."  I  saw  that  some  deep 
discomfort,  some  restless  desire  to  be  sided  with, 
reassuringly,  approvingly  mirrored,  had  been  at 
the  bottom  of  his  drifting  so  far,  and  I  was  gen 
uinely  touched  by  his  confidence.  It  was  incon 
sistent  with  his  habit ;  but  being  troubled  about  a 
woman  was  not,  for  him,  a  habit :  that  itself  was 
an  inconsistency.  George  Gravener  could  stand 
straight  enough  before  any  other  combination  of 
forces.  It  amused  me  to  think  that  the  combi 
nation  he  had  succumbed  to  had  «an  American 


116  THE    COXON   FUND 

accent,  a  transcendental  aunt,  and  an  insolvent 
father  ;  but  all  my  old  loyalty  to  him  mustered  to 
meet  this  unexpected  hint  that  I  could  help  him. 
I  saw  that  I  could  from  the  insincere  tone  in 
which  he  pursued  :  "I've  criticised  her  of  course, 
I've  contended  with  her,  and  it  has  been  great  fun." 
It  clearly  couldn't  have  been  such  great  fun  as  to 
make  it  improper  for  me  presently  to  ask  if  Miss 
Anvoy  had  nothing  at  all  settled  upon  herself.  To 
this  he  replied  that  she  had  only  a  trifle  from  her 
mother — a  mere  four  hundred  a  year,  which  was 
exactly  why  it  would  be  convenient  to  him  that 
she  shouldn't  decline,  in  the  face  of  this  total 
change  in  her  prospects,  an  accession  of  income 
which  would  distinctly  help  them  to  many. 
When  I  enquired  if  there  were  no  other  way  in 
which  so  rich  and  so  affectionate  an  aunt  could 
cause  the  weight  of  her  benevolence  to  be  felt,  he 
answered  that  Lady  Coxon  was  affectionate  in 
deed,  but  was  scarcely  to  be  called  rich.  She  could 
let  her  project  of  the  Fund  lapse  for  her  niece's 
benefit,  but  she  couldn't  do  any  thing  else.  She 
had  been  accustomed  to  regard  her  as  tremen 
dously  provided  for,  and  she  was  up  to  her  eyes  in 
promises  to  anxious  Coxons.  She  was  a  woman  of 
an  inordinate  conscience,  and  her  conscience  was 
now  a  distress  to  her ;  hovering  round  her  bed  in 
irreconcilable  forms  of  resentful  husbands,  portion 
less  nieces,  and  undiscoverable  philosophers. 

We  were  by  this  time  getting  into  the  whir  of 
fleeting  platforms,    the   multiplication   of  lights. 


THE    COXON   FUND  117 

"  I  think  you'll  find,"  I  said,  with  a  laugh,  "  that 
your  predicament  will  disappear  in  the  very  fact 
that  the  philosopher  is  undiscoverable." 

He  began  to  gather  up  his  papers.  "Who  can 
set  a  limit  to  the  ingenuity  of  an  extravagant 
woman  ?  " 

"Yes,  after  all,  who  indeed?"  I  echoed,  as  I 
recalled  the  extravagance  commemorated  in  Mrs. 
Mulville's  anecdote  of  Miss  Anvoy  and  the  thirty 
pounds. 


IX 

THE  thing  I  had  been  most  sensible  of  in  that 
talk  with  George  Gravener  was  the  way  Saltram's 
name  kept  out  of  it.  It  seemed  to  me  at  the  time 
that  we  were  quite  pointedly  silent  about  him  ; 
but  afterward  it  appeared  more  probable  there  had 
been  on  my  companion's  part  no  conscious  avoid 
ance.  Later  on  I  was  sure  of  this,  and  for  the  best 
of  reasons — the  simple  reason  of  rny  perceiving 
more  completely  t licit,  for  evil  as  well  as  for 
good,  he  said  nothing  to  Gravener's  imagination. 
Gravener  was  not  afraid  of  him  ;  he  was  too  much 
disgusted  with  him.  No  more  was  I,  doubtless, 
and  for  very  much  the  same  reason.  I  treated  my 
friend's  story  as  an  absolute  confidence  ;  but  when 
before  Christmas,  by  Mrs.  Saltram,  I  was  informed 
of  Lady  Coxon's  death  without  having  had  news 
of  Miss  Anvoy's  return,  I  found  myself  taking  for 


118  THE    COXON   FUND 

granted  that  we  should  hear  no  more  of  these 
nuptials,  in  which  I  now  recognized  an  element 
incongruous  from  the  first.  I  began  to  ask  myself 
how  people  who  suited  each  other  so  little  could 
please  each  other  so  much.  The  charm  was  some 
material  charm,  some  affinity,  exquisite  doubtless, 
yet  superficial  ;  some  surrender  to  youth  and 
beauty  and  passion,  to  force  and  grace  and  fortune, 
happy  accidents  and  easy  contacts.  They  might 
dote  on  each  other's  persons,  but  how  could  they 
know  each  other's  souls  ?  How  could  they  have 
the  same  prejudices ;  how  could  they  have  the 
same  horizon  ?  Such  questions,  I  confess,  seemed 
quenched  but  not  answered,  when,  one  day  in 
February,  going  out  to  Wimbledon,  I  found  our 
young  lady  in  the  house.  A  passion  that  had 
brought  her  back  across  the  wintry  ocean  was  as 
much  of  a  passion  as  was  necessary.  No  impulse 
equally  strong,  indeed,  had  drawn  George  Grave- 
ner  to  America  ;  a  circumstance  on  which,  how 
ever,  I  reflected  only  long  enough  to  remind 
myself  that  it  was  none  of  my  business.  Ruth 
Anvoy  was  distinctly  different,  and  I  felt  that  the 
difference  was  not  simply  that  of  her  being  in 
mourning.  Mrs.  Mulville  told  me  soon  enough 
what  it  was  ;  it  was  the  difference  between  a  hand 
some  girl  with  large  expectations  and  a  handsome 
girl  with  only  four  hundred  a  year.  This  explana 
tion,  indeed,  did  not  wholly  content  me,  not  even 
when  I  learned  that  her  mourning  had  a  double 
cause — learned  that  poor  Mr.  Anvoy,  giving  way 


THE    COXON    FUND  119 

altogether,  buried  under  the  ruins  of  his  fortune, 
and  leaving  next  to  nothing,  had  died  a  few  weeks 
before. 

"  So  she  has  come  out  to  many  George  Grave- 
ner?"  I  demanded.  "Wouldn't  it  have  been 
prettier  of  him  to  have  saved  her  the  trouble  ?  " 

"Hasn't  the  House  just  met?"  said  Adelaide. 
Then  she  added  :  "  I  gather  that  her  having  come 
is  exactly  a  sign  that  the  marriage  is  a  little  shaky. 
If  it  were  certain,  a  self-respecting  girl  like  Ruth 
would  have  waited  for  him  over  there." 

I  noted  that  they  were  already  Ruth  and  Ade 
laide,  but  what  I  said  was  :  "  Do  you  mean  that 
she  has  returned  to  make  it  a  certainty?" 

"  No,  I  mean  that  I  figure  she  has  come  out  for 
some  reason  independent  of  it."  Adelaide  could 
only  figure  as  yet,  and  there  was  more,  as  we 
found,  to  be  revealed.  Mrs.  Mulville,  on  hearing 
of  her  arrival,  had  brought  the  young  lady  out  in 
the  green  landau  for  the  Sunday.  The  Coxons 
were  in  possession  of  the  house  in  Regent's  Park, 
and  Miss  Anvoy  was  in  dreary  lodgings.  George 
Gravener  was  with  her  when  Adelaide  called,  but 
he  had  assented  graciously  enough  to  the  little 
visit  at  Wimbledon.  The  carriage,  with  Mr.  Sal- 
tram  in  it  but  not  mentioned,  had  been  sent  off 
on  some  errand  from  which  it  was  to  return 
and  pick  the  ladies  up.  Gravener  left  them  to 
gether,  and  at  the  end  of  an  hour,  on  the  Saturday 
afternoon,  the  party  of  three  drove  out  to  Wimble 
don.  This  was  the  girl's  second  glimpse  of  our 


120  THE    COXON   FUND 

great  man,  and  I  was  interested  in  asking  Mrs. 
Mulville  if  the  impression  made  by  the  first 
appeared  to  have  been  confirmed.  On  her  reply 
ing,  after  consideration,  that  of  course  with  time 
and  opportunity  it  couldn't  fail  to  be,  but  as  yet 
she  was  disappointed,  I  was  sufficiently  struck  with 
her  use  of  this  last  word  to  question  her  further. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you're  disappointed  because 
you  judge  that  Miss  Anvoy  is  ?  " 

"Yes  ;  I  hoped  for  a  greater  effect  last  evening. 
We  had  two  or  three  people,  but  he  scarcely 
opened  his  mouth." 

"  He'll  be  all  the  better  this  evening,"  I  added, 
after  a  moment.  "  What  particular  importance 
do  you  attach  to  the  idea  of  her  being  impressed  ?  " 

Adelaide  turned  her  mild,  pale  eyes  on  me  as  if 
she  were  amazed  at  my  levity:  "  Why,  the  im 
portance  of  her  being  as  happy  as  we  are  !  " 

I'm  afraid  that  at  this  my  levity  increased. 
"  Oh,  that's  a  happiness  almost  too  great  to  wisli 
a  person  ! "  I  saw  she  had  not  yet  in  her  mind 
what  I  had  in  mine,  and  at  any  rate  the  visitor's 
actual  bliss  was  limited  to  a  walk  in  the  garden 
with  Kent  Mulville.  Later  in  the  afternoon  I  also 
took  one,  and  I  saw  nothing  of  Miss  Anvoy  till 
dinner,  at  which  we  were  without  the  company  of 
Sal  tram,  who  had  caused  it  to  be  reported  that  he 
was  indisposed,  lying  down.  This  made  us,  most 
of  us — fOv  there  were  other  friends  present — con 
vey  to  each  other  in  silence  some  of  the  unutter 
able  things  which  in  those  years  our  eyes  had 


THE    COXON    FUND  121 

inevitably  acquired  the  art  of  expressing.  If  an 
American  enquirer  had  not  been  there  we  would 
have  expressed  them  otherwise,  and  Adelaide 
would  have  pretended  not  to  hear.  I  had  seen  her, 
before  the  very  fact,  abstract  herself  nobly;  and 
I  knew  that  more  than  once,  to  keep  it  from  the 
servants,  managing,  dissimulating  cleverly,  she 
had  helped  her  husband  to  carry  him  bodily  to  his 
room.  Just  recently  he  had  been  so  wise  and  so 
deep  and  so  high  that  I  had  begun  to  get  nervous 
— to  wonder  if  by  chance  there  were  something 
behind  it,  if  he  were  kept  straight  for  instance  by 
the  knowledge  that  the  hated  Pudneys  would  have 
more  to  tell  us,  if  they  chose.  He  was  lying  low, 
but  unfortunately  it  was  common  wisdom  with  us 
that  the  biggest  splashes  took  place  in  the  quietest 
pools.  We  should  have  had  a  merry  life  indeed  if 
all  the  splashes  had  sprinkled  us  as  refreshingly  as 
the  waters  we  were  even  then  to  feel  about  our  ears. 
Kent  Mulville  had  been  up  to  his  room,  but  had 
come  back  with  a  face  that  told  as  few  tales  as  I  had 
seen  it  succeed  in  telling  on  the  evening  I  waited 
in  the  lecture-room  with  Miss  Anvoy.  I  said  to 
myself  that  our  friend  had  gone  out,  but  I  was 
glad  that  the  presence  of  a  comparative  stranger 
deprived  us  of  the  dreary  duty  of  suggesting  to 
each  other,  in  respect  of  his  errand,  edifying  pos 
sibilities  in  which  we  didn't  ourselves  believe.  At 
ten  o'clock  he  came  into  the  drawing-room  with 
Ms  waistcoat  much  awry,  but  his  eyes  sending  out 
great  signals.  It  was  precisely  with  his  entrance 


122  THE    COXON    FUND 

that  I  ceased  to  be  vividly  conscious  of  him.  I 
saw  that  the  crystal,  as  I  had  called  it,  had  begun 
to  swing,  and  I  had  need  of  my  immediate  atten 
tion  for  Miss  Anvoy. 

Even  when  I  was  told  afterward  that  he  had,  as 
we  might  have  said  to-day,  broken  the  record,  the 
manner  in  which  that  attention  had  been  rewarded 
relieved  me  of  a  sense  of  loss.  I  had  of  course  a 
perfect  general  consciousness  that  something  great 
was  going  on  :  it  was  a  little  like  having  been 
etherized  to  hear  Herr  Joachim  play.  The  old 
music  was  in  the  air  ;  I  felt  the  strong  pulse  of 
thought,  the  sink  and  swell,  the  flight,  the  poise, 
the  plunge  ;  but  I  knew  something  about  one  of 
the  listeners  that  nobody  else  knew,  and  Saltram's 
monologue  could  reach  me  only  through  that 
medium.  To  this  hour  I'm  of  no  use  when,  as  a 
witness,  I'm  appealed  to  (for  they  still  absurdly 
contend  about  it)  as  to  whether  or  no  on  that 
historic  night  he  was  drunk  ;  and  my  position  is 
slightly  ridiculous,  for  I  have  never  cared  to  tell 
them  what  it  really  was  I  was  taken  up  with. 
What  I  got  out  of  it  is  the  only  morsel  of  the  total 
experience  that  is  quite  my  own.  The  others  were 
shared,  but  this  is  incommunicable.  I  feel  that 
now,  I'm  bound  to  say,  in  even  thus  roughly  evok 
ing  the  occasion,  and  it  takes  something  from  my 
pride  of  clearness.  However,  I  shall  perhaps  be 
as  clear  as  is  absolutely  necessary  if  I  remark  that 
she  was  too  much  given  up  to  her  own  intensity  of 
observation  to  be  sensible  of  mine.  It  was  plainly 


THE    COXON   FUND  123 

not  the  question  of  her  marriage  that  had  brought 
her  back.  I  greatly  enjoyed  this  discovery,  and 
was  sure  that,  had  that  question  alone  been  in 
volved,  she  would  have  remained  away.  In  this 
case,  doubtless,  Gravener  would,  in  spite  of  the 
House  of  Commons,  have  found  means  to  rejoin 
her.  It  afterward  made  me  uncomfortable  for  her 
that,  alone  in  the  lodging  Mrs.  Mulville  had  put 
before  me  as  dreary,  she  should  have  in  any  de 
gree  the  air  of  waiting  for  her  fate  ;  so  that  I  was 
presently  relieved  at  hearing  of  her  having  gone  to 
stay  at  Coldfield.  If  she  was  in  England  at  all 
while  the  engagement  stood,  the  only  proper  place 
for  her  was  under  Lady  Maddock's  wing.  Now 
that  she  was  unfortunate  and  relatively  poor,  per 
haps  her  prospective  sister-in-law  would  be  wholly 
won  over.  There  would  be  much  to  say,  if  I  had 
space,  about  the  way  her  behavior,  as  I  caught 
gleams  of  it,  ministered  to  the  image  that  had 
taken  birth  in  my  mind,  to  my  private  amusement, 
as  I  listened  to  George  Gravener  in  the  railway- 
carriage.  I  watched  her  in  the  light  of  this  queer 
possibility — a  formidable  thing  certainly  to  meet — 
and  I  was  aware  that  it  colored,  extravagantly 
perhaps,  my  interpretation  of  her  very  looks  and 
tones.  At  Wimbledon,  for  instance,  it  had  seemed 
to  me  that  she  was  literally  afraid  of  Saltram  ;  in 
dread  of  a  coercion  that  she  had  begun  already  to 
feel.  I  had  come  up  to  town  with  her  the  next 
day  and  had  been  convinced  that,  though  deeply 
interested,  she  was  immensely  on  her  guard.  She 


A  T* 


124  THE    COXON    FUND 

would  show  as  little  as  possible  before  she  should 
be  ready  to  show  every  thing.  What  this  final  ex 
hibition  might  be,  on  the  part  of  a  girl  perceptibly 
so  able  to  think  things  out,  I  found  it  great  sport 
to  forecast.  It  would  have  been  exciting  to  be 
approached  by  her,  appealed  to  by  her  for  advice  ; 
but  I  prayed  to  Heaven  I  mightn't  find  myself  in 
such  a  predicament.  If  there  was  really  a  present 
rigor  in  the  situation  of  which  Gravener  had 
sketched  for  me  the  elements,  she  would  have  to 
get  out  of  her  difficulty  by  herself.  It  was  not  I 
who  had  launched  her.  and  it  was  not  I  who  could 
help  her.  I  didn't  fail  to  ask  myself  why,  since  I 
couldn't  help  her,  I  should  think  so  much  about 
her.  It  was  in  part  my  suspense  that  was  respon 
sible  for  this  ;  I  waited  impatiently  to  see  whether 
she  wouldn't  have  told  Mrs.  Mulville  a  portion  at 
least  of  what  I  had  learned  from  Gravener.  But 
I  saw  Mrs.  Mulville  was  still  reduced  to  wonder 
what  she  had  come  out  again  for,  if  she  hadn't 
come  as  a  conciliatory  bride.  That  she  had  come 
in  some  other  character  was  the  only  thing  that 
fitted  all  the  appearances.  Having,  for  family 
reasons,  to  spend  sometime  that  spring  in  the  west 
of  England,  I  was  in  a  manner  out  of  earshot  of  the 
great  oceanic  rumble  (I  mean  of  the  continuous  hum 
of  Saltram's  thought),  and  my  uneasiness  tended  to 
keep  me  quiet.  There  was  something  I  wanted  so 
little  to  have  to  say  that  my  prudence  surmounted 
my  curiosity.  I  only  wondered  if  Ruth  Anvoy 
talked  over  the  idea  of  the  Coxon  Fund  with  Lady 


THE    COXON    FUND  125 

Haddock,  and  also  somewhat  why  I  didn't  hear 
from  Wimbledon.  I  had  a  reproachful  note  about 
something  or  other  from  Mrs.  Saltram,  but  it  con 
tained  no  mention  of  Lady  Coxon's  niece,  on  whom 
her  eyes  had  been  much  less  fixed  since  the  recent 
untoward  events. 


ADELAIDE'S  silence  was  fully  explained  later  ;  it 
was  practically  explained  when  in  June,  returning 
to  London,  I  was  honored  by  this  admirable 
woman  with  an  early  visit.  As  soon  as  she 
appeared  I  guessed  every  thing,  and  as  soon  as  she 
told  me  that  darling  Ruth  had  been  in  her  house 
nearly  a  month  I  exclaimed  :  "  What  in  the  name 
of  maidenly  modesty  is  she  staying  in  England 
for  ?  » 

"  Because  she  loves  me  so  !  "  cried  Adelaide 
gayly.  But  she  had  not  come  to  see  me  only  to 
tell  me  Miss  Anvoy  loved  her ;  that  was  now 
sufficiently  established,  and  what  was  much  more 
to  the  point  was  that  Mr.  Gravener  had  now 
raised  an  objection  to  it.  That  is,  he  had  pro 
tested  against  her  being  at  Wimbledon,  where 
in  the  innocence  of  his  heart  he  had  originally 
brought  her  himself  ;  in  short  he  wanted  her  to 
put  an  end  to  their  engagement  in  the  only  proper, 
the  only  happy  manner. 


126  THE    COXON   FUND 

"  And  why  in  the  world  doesn't  she  do  so  ?  "  I 
enquired. 

Adelaide  hesitated.  "  She  says  you  know." 
Then,  on  my  also  hesitating,  she  added  :  "  A  con 
dition  he  makes." 

"  The  Coxon  fund  ?  "  I  cried. 

"  He  has  mentioned  to  her  his  having  told  you 
about  it." 

"Ah,  but  so  little  !  Do  you  mean  she  has 
accepted  the  trust  ?  " 

"  In  the  most  splendid  spirit — as  a  duty  about 
which  there  can  be  no  two  opinions."  Then  said 
Adelaide  after  an  instant  :  "  Of  course  she's  think 
ing  of  Mr.  Saltrarn." 

I  gave  a  quick  cry  at  this,  which,  in  its  violence, 
made  my  visitor  turn  pale.  "  How  very  awful  !  " 

"Awful?" 

"Why,  to  have  any  thing  to  do  with  such  an 
idea  one's  self." 

"  I'm  sure  you  needn't  !  "  Mrs.  Mulville  gave 
a  slight  toss  of  her  head. 

"  He  isn't  good  enough  !  "  I  went  on  ;  to  which 
she  responded  with  an  ejaculation  almost  as  lively 
as  mine  had  been.  This  made  me,  with  genuine, 
immediate  horror,  exclaim  :  "  You  haven't  influ 
enced  her,  I  hope  !  "  and  my  emphasis  brought 
back  the  blood  with  a  rush  to  poor  Adelaide's 
face.  She  declared,  while  she  blushed  (for  I  had 
frightened  her  again),  that  she  had  never  influ 
enced  any  body  and  that  the  girl  had  only  seen  and 
heard  and  judged  for  herself.  He  had  influenced 


THE    COXOX    FUND  127 

her,  if  I  would,  as  he  did  every  one  who  had  a 
soul :  that  word,  as  we  knew,  even  expressed 
feebly  the  power  of  the  things  he  said  to  haunt 
the  mind.  How  could  she,  Adelaide,  help  it  if 
Miss  Anvoy's  mind  was  haunted?  I  demanded 
with  a  groan  what  right  a  pretty  girl  engaged  to 
a  rising  M.  P.  had  to  have  a  mind  ;  but  the  only 
explanation  my  bewildered  friend  could  give  me 
was  that  she  was  so  clever.  She  regarded  Mi*. 
Saltram  naturally  as  a  tremendous  force  for  good. 
She  was  intelligent  enough  to  understand  him  and 
generous  enough  to  admire. 

"  She's  many  things  enough,  but  is  she,  among 
them,  rich  enough  ?  "  I  demanded.  "  Rich  enough, 
I  mean,  to  sacrifice  such  a  lot  of  good  money  ?  " 

"That's for  herself  to  judge.  Besides,  it's  not  her 
own  money  ^  she  doesn't  in  the  least  consider  it  so." 

"  And  Gravener  does,  if  not  his  own  ;  and  that's 
the  whole  difficulty  ?" 

"  The  difficulty  that  brought  her  back,  yes  ;  she 
had  absolutely  to  see  her  poor  aunt's  solicitor. 
It's  clear  that  by  Lady  Coxon's  will  she  may  have 
the  money,  but  it's  still  clearer  to  her  conscience 
that  the  original  condition — definite,  intensely  im 
plied  on  her  uncle's  part — is  attached  to  the  use 
of  it.  She  can  only  take  one  view  of  it.  It's  for 
the  Endowment,  or  it's  for  nothing." 

"The  Endowment  is  a  conception  superficially 
sublime,  but  fundamentally  ridiculous." 

"Are  you  repeating  Mr.  Gravener's  words?" 
Adelaide  asked. 


128  THE    COXON   FUND 

"  Possibly,  though  I've  not  seen  him  for  months. 
It's  simply  the  way  it  strikes  me  too.  It's  an  old 
wife's  tale.  Gravener  made  some  reference  to  the 
legal  aspect,  but  such  an  absurdly  loose  arrange 
ment  has  no  legal  aspect." 

"Ruth  doesn't  insist  on  that,"  said  Mrs.  Mul- 
ville  ;  "  and  it's  for  her  exactly  this  technical 
weakness  that  constitutes  the  force  of  the  moral 
obligation." 

"  Are  you  repeating  her  words  ?  "  I  enquired. 
I  forget  what  else  Adelaide  said,  but  she  said  she 
was  magnificent.  I  thought  of  George  Gravener 
confronted  with  such  magnificence  as  that,  and  I 
asked  what  could  have  made  two  such  people  ever 
suppose  they  understood  each  other.  Mrs.  Mul- 
ville  assured  me  the  girl  loved  him  as  such  a 
woman  could  love,  and  that  she  suffered  as  such  a 
woman  could  suffer.  Nevertheless  she  wanted  to 
see  me.  At  this  I  sprang  up  with  a  groan.  "  Oh, 
I'm  so  sorry  !  when  ?  "  Small  though  her  sense 
of  humor,  I  think  Adelaide  laughed  at  my  tone. 
We  discussed  the  day,  the  nearest  it  would  be 
convenient  I  should  come  out ;  but  before  she 
went  I  asked  my  visitor  how  long  she  had  been 
acquainted  with  these  prodigies. 

"  For  several  weeks,  but  I  was  pledged  to 
secrecy." 

"  And  that's  why  you  didn't  write  ?  " 

"  I  couldn't  very  well  tell  you  she  was  with  me 
without  telling  you  that  no  time  had  even  yet  been 
fixed  for  her  marriage.  And  I  couldn't  very  well 


THE    COXON    FUND  129 

tell  you  as  much  as  that  without  telling  you  what 
I  knew  of  the  reason  of  it.  It  was  not  till  a  day 
or  two  ago,"  Mrs.  Mulville  went  on,  "  that  she 
asked  me  to  ask  you  if  you  wouldn't  come  and  see 
her.  Then  at  last  she  said  that  you  knew  about 
the  idea  of  the  Endowment." 

I  considered  a  little.  "  Why  on  earth  does  she 
want  to  see  me  ?  " 

"  To  talk  with  you,  naturally,  about  Mr.  Salt- 
ram." 

"  As  a  subject  for  the  prize  ?  "  This  was  hugely 
obvious,  and  I  presently  exclaimed  :  "  I  think  I'll 
sail  to-morrow  for  Australia." 

"  Well,  then — sail  !  "  said  Mrs.  Mulville,  getting 
up. 

"  On  Thursday  at  five,  we  said  ?  "  I  frivolously 
continued.  The  appointment  was  made  definite, 
and  I  enquired  how,  all  this  time,  the  unconscious 
candidate  had  carried  himself. 

"  In  perfection,  really,  by  the  happiest  of 
chances  :  he  has  been  a  dear.  And  then,  as  to 
what  we  revere  him  for,  in  the  most  wonderful 
form.  His  very  highest — pure  celestial  light. 
You  won't  do  him  an  ill  turn  ?  "  Adelaide  pleaded 
at  the  door. 

"  What  danger  can  equal  for  him  the  danger 
to  which  he  is  exposed  for  himself  ?  "  I  asked. 
"  Look  out  sharp,  if  he  has  lately  been  decorous. 
He'll  presently  take  a  day  off  ;  treat  us  to  some 
exhibition  that  will  make  an  Endowment  a 
scandal." 
9 


130  THE    COXON  FUND 

"A  scandal  ?  "  Mrs.  Mulville  dolorously  echoed. 

"  Is  Miss  Anvoy  prepared  for  that  ?  " 

My  visitor  for  a  moment  screwed  her  parasol 
into  my  carpet.  "  He  grows  bigger  every  day." 

"  So  do  you  !  "  I  laughed,  as  she  went  off. 

That  girl  at  Wimbledon,  on  the  Thursday  after 
noon,  more  than  justified  my  apprehensions.  I 
recognized  fully  now  the  cause  of  the  agitation  she 
had  produced  in  me  from  the  first — the  faint  fore 
knowledge  that  there  was  something  very  stiff  I 
should  have  to  do  for  her.  I  felt  more  than  ever 
committed  to  my  fate  as,  standing  before  her  in  the 
big  drawing-room  where  they  had  tactfully  left  us 
to  ourselves,  I  tried  with  a  smile  to  string  together 
the  pearls  of  lucidity  which,  from  her  chair,  she 
successively  tossed  me.  Pale  and  bright,  in  her 
monotonous  mourning,  she  was  an  image  of  intel 
ligent  purpose,  of  the  passion  of  duty;  but  I  asked 
myself  whether  any  girl  had  ever  had  so  charming 
an  instinct  as  that  which  permitted  her  to  laugh 
out,  as  if  in  the  joy  of  her  difficulty,  into  the  prig 
gish  old  room.  This  remarkable  young  woman 
could  be  earnest  without  being  solemn,  and  at 
moments  when  I  ought  doubtless  to  have  cursed 
her  obstinacy  I  found  myself  watching  the  un 
studied  play  of  her  eyebrows  or  the  recurrence  of  a 
singularly  intense  whiteness  produced  by  the  part 
ing  of  her  lips.  These  aberrations,  I  hasten  to  add, 
didn't  prevent  my  learning  soon  enough  why  she 
had  wished  to  see  me.  Her  reason  for  this  was  as 
distinct  as  her  beauty  :  it  was  to  make  me  explain 


THE    COXON    FUND  131 

what  I  had  meant,  on  the  occasion  of  our  first 
meeting,  by  Mr.  Saltram's  want  of  dignity.  It 
wasn't  that  she  couldn't  imagine,  but  she  desired  it 
there  from  my  lips.  What  she  really  desired  of 
course  was  to  know  whether  there  was  worse  about 
him  than  what  she  had  found  out  for  herself.  She 
hadn't  been  a  month  in  the  house  with  him,  that 
way,  without  discovering  that  he  wasn't  a  man  of 
monumental  bronze.  He  was  like  a  jelly  without 
a  mould,  he  had  to  be  embanked  ;  and  that  was 
precisely  the  source  of  her  interest  in  him  and 
the  ground  of  her  project.  She  put  her  proj 
ect  boldly  before  me  :  there  it  stood  in  its 
preposterous  beauty.  She  was  as  willing  to  take 
the  humorous  view  of  it  as  I  could  be  :  the 
only  difference  was  that  for  her  the  humorous 
view  of  a  thing  was  not  necessarily  prohibitive, 
was  not  paralyzing. 

Moreover  she  professed  that  she  couldn't  discuss 
with  me  the  primary  question — the  moral  obli 
gation  :  that  was  in  her  own  breast.  There  were 
things  she  couldn't  go  into — injunctions,  impres 
sions  she  had  received.  They  were  a  part  of  the 
closest  intimacy  of  her  intercourse  with  her  aunt, 
they  were  absolutely  clear  to  her  ;  and  on  questions 
of  delicacy,  the  interpretation  of  a  fidelity,  of  a 
promise,  one  had  always  in  the  last  resort  to  make 
up  one's  mind  for  one's  self.  It  was  the  idea  of  the 
application  to  the  particular  case,  such  a  splendid 
one  at  last,  that  troubled  her,  and  she  admitted 
that  it  stirred  very  deep  things.  She  didn't 


132  THE    COXON    FUND 

pretend  that  such  a  responsibility  was  a  simple 
matter  ;  if  it  had  been,  she  wouldn't  have  at 
tempted  to  saddle  me  with  any  portion  of  it.  The 
Mulvilles  were  sympathy  itself  :  but  were  they 
absolutely  candid  ?  Could  they  indeed  be,  in  their 
position — would  it  even  have  been  to  be  desired  ? 
Yes,  she  had  sent  for  me  to  ask  no  less  than  that 
of  me — whether  there  was  anything  dreadful  kept 
back.  She  made  no  allusion  whatever  to  George 
Gravener — I  thought  her  silence  the  only  good 
taste  and  her  gayety  perhaps  a  part  of  the  very 
anxiety  of  that  discretion,  the  effect  of  a  determi 
nation  that  people  shouldn't  know  from  herself 
that  her  relations  with  the  man  she  was  to  marry 
were  strained.  All  the  weight,  however,  that  she 
left  me  to  throw  was  a  sufficient  implication  of  the 
weight  that  he  had  thrown  in  vain.  Oh,  she  knew 
the  question  of  character  was  immense,  and  that 
one  couldn't  entertain  any  plan  for  making  merit 
comfortable  without  running  the  gauntlet  of  that 
terrible  procession  of  interrogation-points  which, 
like  a  young  ladies'  school  out  for  a  walk,  hooked 
their  uniform  noses  at  the  tail  of  governess  Con 
duct.  But  were  we  absolutely  to  hold  that  there 
was  never,  never,  never  an  exception,  never,  never, 
never  an  occasion  for  liberal  acceptance  ;  for  clever 
charity,  for  suspended  pedantry — for  letting  one 
side,  in  short,  outbalance  another  ?  When  Miss 
Anvoy  threw  off  this  enquiry  I  could  have  em 
braced  her  for  so  delightfully  emphasizing  her 
unlikeness  to  Mrs.  Saltram.  "  Why  not  have  the 


THE    COXON    FUND  133 

courage  of  one's  forgiveness,"  she  asked,  "  as  well 
as  the  enthusiasm  of  one's  adhesion  ?  " 

"  Seeing  how  wonderfully  you  have  threshed  the 
whole  thing  out,"  I  evasively  replied,  "gives  me 
an  extraordinary  notion  of  the  point  your  enthu 
siasm  has  reached." 

She  considered  this  remark  an  instant  with  her 
eyes  on  mine,  and  I  divined  that  it  struck  her  I 
might  possibly  intend  it  as  a  reference  to  some 
personal  subjection  to  our  fat  philosopher,  to  some 
aberration  of  sensibility,  some  perversion  of  taste. 
At  least  I  couldn't  interpret  otherwise  the  sudden 
flush  that  came  into  her  face.  Such  a  manifes 
tation,  as  the  result  of  any  word  of  mine,  em 
barrassed  me  ;  but  while  I  was  thinking  how  to 
reassure  her  the  flush  passed  away  in  a  smile  of 
exquisite  good-nature.  "  Oh,  you  see,  one  forgets 
so  wonderfully  how  one  dislikes  him  !  "  she  said  ; 
and  if  her  tone  simply  extinguished  his  strange 
figure  with  the  brush  of  its  compassion,  it  also 
rings  in  my  ear  to-day  as  the  purest  of  all  our 
praises.  But  with  what  quick  response  of  com 
passion  such  a  relegation  of  the  man  himself  made 
me  privately  sigh,  "Ah,  poor  Saltram  !  "  She 
instantly,  with  this,  took  the  measure  of  all  I  didn't 
believe,  and  it  enabled  her  to  go  on  :  "  What  can 
one  do  when  a  person  has  given  such  a  lift  to  one's 
interest  in  life  ?  " 

"  Yes,  what  can  one  do  ?  "  If  I  struck  her  as 
a  little  vague,  it  was  because  I  was  thinking  of 
another  person.  I  indulged  in  another  inarticu- 


134  THE    COXON   FUND 

late  murmur — "  Poor  George  Graven er  !  "  What 
had  become  of  the  lift  he  had  given  that  interest  ? 
Later  on  I  made  up  my  mind  that  she  was  sore 
and  stricken  at  the  appearance  he  presented  of 
wanting  the  miserable  money.  This  was  the  hid 
den  reason  of  her  alienation.  The  probable  sin 
cerity,  in  spite  of  the  illiberality,  of  his  scruples 
about  the  particular  use  of  it  under  discussion 
didn't  efface  the  ugliness  of  his  demand  that  they 
should  buy  a  good  house  with  it.  Then,  as  for 
his  alienation,  he  didn't,  pardonably  enough,  grasp 
the  lift  Frank  Sal  tram  had  given  her  interest  in 
life.  If  a  mere  spectator  could  ask  that  last  ques 
tion,  with  what  rage  in  his  heart  the  man  himself 
might  !  He  was  not,  like  her,  I  was  to  see,  too 
proud  to  show  me  why  he  was  disappointed. 


XI 

I  WAS  unable,  this  time,  to  stay  to  dinner;  such, 
rat  any  rate,  was  the  plea  on  which  I  took  leave. 
I  desired  in  truth  to  get  away  from  my  young 
lady,  for  that  obviously  helped  me  not  to  pretend 
to  satisfy  her.  How  could  I  satisfy  her  ?  I 
asked  myself — how  could  I  tell  her  how  much  had 
been  kept  back  ?  I  didn't  even  know,  and  I  cer 
tainly  didn't  desire  to  know.  My  own  policy  had 
ever  been  to  learn  the  least  about  poor  Saltram's 
weaknesses — not  to  learn  the  most.  A  great  deal 


THE    COXON   FUND  135 

that  I  had  in  fact  learned  had  been  forced  upon  me 
by  his  wife.  There  was  something  even  irritating 
in  Miss  Anvoy's  crude  conscientiousness,  and  I 
wondered  why,  after  all,  she  couldn't  have  let  him 
alone  and  been  content  to  entrust  George  Gravener 
with  the  purchase  of  the  good  house.  I  was  sure 
he  would  have  driven  a  bargain,  got  something 
excellent  and  cheap.  I  laughed  louder  even  than 
she,  I  temporized,  I  failed  her  ;  1  told  her  I  must 
think  over  her  case.  I  professed  a  horror  of 
responsibilities  and  twitted  her  with  her  own 
extravagant  passion  for  them.  It  was  not  really 
that  I  was  afraid  of  the  scandal,  of  moral  dis 
credit  for  the  Fund  ;  what  troubled  me  most  was 
a  feeling  of  a  different  order.  Of  course,  as  the 
beneficiary  of  the  Fund  was  to  enjoy  a  simple  life 
interest,  as  it  was  hoped  that  new  beneficiaries 
would  arise  and  come  up  to  new  standards,  it 
would  not  be  a  trifle  that  the  first  of  these 
worthies  should  not  have  been  a  striking  example 
of  the  domestic  virtues.  The  Fund  would  start 
badly,  as  it  were;  and  the  laurel  would,  in  some  re 
spects  at  least,  scarcely  be  greener  from  the  brows 
of  the  original  wearer.  That  idea,  however,  was 
at  that  hour,  as  I  have  hinted,  not  the  source  of 
anxiety  it  ought,  perhaps,  to  have  been,  for  I  felt 
less  the  irregularity  of  Saltram's  getting  the 
money  than  that  of  this  exalted  young  woman's 
giving  it  up.  I  wanted  her  to  have  it  for  herself, 
and  I  told  her  so  before  I  went  away.  She  looked 
graver  at  this  than  she  had  looked  at  all,  saying 


136  THE    COXON   FUND 

she  hoped  such  a  preference  wouldn't   make  me 
dishonest. 

It  made  me,  to  begin  with,  very  restless — made 
me,  instead  of  going  straight  to  the  station,  fidget 
a  little  about  that  many-colored  Common  which 
gives  Wimbledon  horizons.  There  was  a  worry 
for  me  to  work  off,  or  rather  keep  at  a  distance, 
for  I  declined  even  to  admit  to  myself  that  I  had, 
in  Miss  Anvoy's  phrase,  been  saddled  with  it. 
What  could  have  been  clearer,  indeed,  than  the 
attitude  of  recognizing  perfectly  what  a  world  of 
trouble  the  Goxon  Fund  would  in  future  save  us, 
and  of  yet  liking  better  to  face  a  continuance  of 
that  trouble  than  see,  and  in  fact  contribute  to,  a 
deviation  from  attainable  bliss  in  the  life  of  two 
other  persons  in  whom  I  was  deeply  interested  ? 
Suddenly,  at  the  end  of  twenty  minutes,  there  was 
projected  across  this  clearness  the  image  of  a 
massive,  middle-aged  man  seated  on  a  bench, 
under  a  tree,  with  sad,  far-wandering  eyes  and 
plump  white  hands  folded  on  the  head  of  a  stick — 
a  stick  I  recognized,  a  stout  gold-headed  staff  that 
I  had  given  him  in  throbbing  days.  I  stopped 
short  as  he  turned  his  face  to  me,  and  it  happened 
that  for  some  reason  or  other  I  took  in  as  I  had, 
perhaps,  never  done  before  the  beauty  of  his  rich, 
blank  gaze.  It  was  charged  with  experience  as 
the  sky  is  charged  with  light  ;  and  I  felt  on  the 
instant  as  if  we  had  been  overspanned  and  con 
joined  by  the  great  arch  of  a  bridge  or  the  great 
dome  of  a  temple.  Doubtless  I  was  rendered 


THE    COXON   FUND  137 

peculiarly  sensitive  to  it  by  something  in  the  way 
I  had  been  giving  him  up  and  sinking  him. 
While  I  met  it  I  stood  there  smitten,  and  I  felt 
myself  responding  to  it  with  a  sort  of  guilty 
grimace.  This  brought  back  his  attention  in  a 
smile  which  expressed  for  me  a  cheerful,  weary 
patience  ;  a  bruised,  noble  gentleness.  I  had  told 
Miss  Anvoy  that  he  had  no  dignity,  but  what  did 
he  seem  to  me,  all  unbuttoned  and  fatigued  as  he 
waited  for  me  to  come  up,  if  he  didn't  seem  un 
concerned  with  small  things,  didn't  seem,  in  short, 
majestic  ?  There  was  majesty  in  his  mere  uncon 
sciousness  of  our  little  conferences  and  puzzle 
ments  over  his  maintenance  and  his  reward. 

After  I  ha,:*  sat  by  him  a  few  minutes  I  passed 
my  arm  over  his  big  soft  shoulder  (wherever  you 
touched  him  you  found  equally  little  firmness)  and 
said  in  a  tone  of  which  the  suppliance  fell  oddly 
on  my  own  ear :  "  Come  back  to  town  with  me, 
old  friend — come  back  and  spend  the  evening."  I 
wanted  to  hold  him,  I  wanted  to  keep  him,  and  at 
Waterloo,  an  hour  later,  I  telegraphed  possessively 
to  the  Mulvilles.  When  he  objected,  as  regards 
staying  all  night,  that  he  had  no  things,  I  asked 
him  if  he  hadn't  every  thing  of  mine.  I  had 
abstained  from  ordering  dinner,  and  it  was  too 
late  for  preliminaries  at  a  club  ;  so  we  were  re 
duced  to  tea  and  fried  fish  at  my  rooms — reduced 
also  to  the  transcendent.  Something  had  come  up 
which  made  me  want  him  to  feel  at  peace  with  me, 
which  was  all  the  dear  man  himself  wanted  on 


138  THE    COXON   FUND 

any  occasion.  I  bad  too  often  bad  to  press  upon 
bim  considerations,  irrelevant,  but  it  gives  me 
pleasure  now  to  tbink  tbat  on  tbat  particular 
evening  I  didn't  even  mention  Mrs.  Saltram  and 
tbe  children.  Late  into  tbe  nigbt  we  smoked  and 
talked ;  old  sbames  and  old  rigors  fell  away  from 
us  ;  I  only  let  bim  see  that  I  was  conscious  of  what 
I  owed  him.  He  was  as  mild  as  contrition  and  as 
abundant  as  faith  ;  he  was  never  so  fine  as  on  a 
shy  return,. and  even  better  at  forgiving  than  at 
being  forgiven.  I  dare  say  it  was  a  smaller  matter 
than  tbat  famous  night  at  Wimbledon,  tbe  night 
of  the  problematical  sobriety  and  of  Miss  Anvoy's 
initiation  ;  but  I  was  as  much  in  it  on  this  occasion 
as  I  had  been  out  of  it  then.  At  about  1.30  be 
was  sublime. 

He  never,  under  any  circumstances,  rose  till  all 
other  risings  were  over,  and  his  breakfasts,  at 
Wimbledon,  had  always  been  the  principal  reason 
mentioned  by  departing  cooks.  Tbe  coast  was 
therefore  clear  for  me  to  receive  her  when,  early 
the  next  morning,  to  my  surprise,  it  was  announced 
to  me  that  bis  wife  bad  called.  I  hesitated,  after 
she  had  come  up,  about  telling  her  Saltram  was 
in  tbe  bouse,  but  she  herself  settled  the  question, 
kept  me  reticent,  by  drawing  forth  a  sealed  letter 
which,  looking  at  me  veiy  hard  in  tbe  eyes,  she 
placed,  with  a  pregnant  absence  of  comment,  in 
my  hand.  For  a  single  moment  there  glimmered 
before  me  the  fond  hope  that  Mrs.  Saltram  had 
tendered  me,  as  it  were,  her  resignation,  and  desired 


THE    COXON   FUND  139 

to  embody  the  act  in  an  unsparing  form.  To 
bring  this  about  I  would  have  feigned  any  humili 
ation  ;  but  after  my  eyes  had  caught  the  super 
scription  I  heard  myself  say  with  a  flatness  that 
betrayed  a  sense  of  something  very  different  from 
relief  :  "  Oh,  the  Pudneys  !  "  I  knew  their  envel 
opes,  though  they  didn't  know  mine.  They  always 
used  the  kind  sold  at  post-offices  with  the  stamp 
affixed,  and  as  this  letter  had  not  been  posted  they 
had  wasted  a  penny  on  me.  I  had  seen  their 
horrid  missives  to  the  Mulvilles,  but  had  not  been 
in  direct  correspondence  with  them. 

"  They  enclosed  it  to  me,  to  be  delivered.  They 
doubtless  explain  to  you  that  they  hadn't  your 
address." 

I  turned  the  thing  over  without  opening  it. 
"  Why  in  the  world  should  they  write  to  me  ? " 

"  Because  they  have  something  to  tell  you.  The 
worst !  "  Mrs.  Saltram  dryly  added. 

It  was  another  chapter,  I  felt,  of  the  history  of 
their  lamentable  quarrel  with  her  husband  ;  the 
episode  in  which,  vindictively,  disingenuously  as 
they  themselves  had  behaved,  one  had  to  admit 
that  he  had  put  himself  more  grossly  in  the  wrong 
than  at  any  moment  of  his  life.  He  had  begun 
by  insulting  the  matchless  Mulvilles  for  these 
more  specious  protectors,  and  then,  according  to 
his  wont,  at  the  end  of  a  few  months  had  dug  a 
still  deeper  ditch  for  his  aberration  than  the  chasm 
left  yawning  behind.  The  chasm  at  Wimbledon 
was  now  blessedly  closed  ;  but  the  Pudneys,  across 


140  THE    COXON    FUND 

their  persistent  gulf,  kept  up  the  nastiest  fire.  I 
never  doubted  they  had  a  strong  case,  and  I  had 
been  from  the  first  for  not  defending  him — reason 
ing,  if  they  were  not  contradicted  they  would  per 
haps  subside.  This  was  above  all  what  I  wanted, 
and  I  so  far  prevailed  that  I  did  arrest  the  corre 
spondence  in  time  to  save  our  little  circle  an  inflic 
tion  heavier  than  it  perhaps  would  have  borne.  I 
knew,  that  is,  I  divined,  that  their  allegations  had 
gone  as  yet  only  as  far  as  their  courage  ;  conscious 
as  they  were  in  their  own  virtue  of  an  exposed 
place,  in  which  Saltram  could  have  planted  a  blow. 
It  was  a  question  with  them  whether  a  man  who 
had  himself  so  much  to  cover  up  would  dare  his 
blow  ;  so  that  these  vessels  of  rancor  were  in  a 
manner  afraid  of  each  other.  I  judged  that  on  the 
day  the  Pudneys  should  cease  for  some  reason  or 
other  to  be  afraid  they  would  treat  us  to  some 
revelation  more  disconcerting  than  any  of  its  pred 
ecessors.  As  I  held  Mrs.  Saltram's  letter  in  my 
hand  it  was  distinctly  communicated  to  me  that  the 
day  had  come — they  had  ceased  to  be  afraid.  "  I 
don't  want  to  know  the  worst,"!  presently  declared. 

"  You'll  have  to  open  the  letter.  It  also  contains 
an  enclosure." 

I  felt  it — it  was  fat  and  uncanny.  "  Wheels 
within  wheels  !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  There  is  something 
for  me  too  to  deliver." 

"So  they  tell  me — to  Miss  Anvoy." 

I  stared;  I  felt  a  certain  thrill.  "Why  don't 
they  send  it  to  her  directly  ?  " 


THE    COXON    FUND  141 

Mrs.  Saltram  hesitated.  "  Because  she's  staying 
with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mulville." 

"  And  why  should  that  prevent  ?  " 

Again  my  visitor  faltered,  and  I  began  to  reflect 
on  the  grotesque,  the  unconscious  perversity  of 
her  action.  I  was  the  only  person  save  George 
Gravener  and  the  Mulvilles  who  was  aware  of  Sir 
Gregory  Coxon's  and  of  Miss  Anvoy's  strange 
bounty.  Where  could  there  have  been  a  more 
signal  illustration  of  the  clumsiness  of  human  affairs 
than  her  having  complacently  selected  this  moment 
to  fly  in  the  face  of  it?  "There's  the  chance  of 
their  seeing  her  letters.  They  know  Mr.  Pudney's 
hand." 

Still  I  didn't  understand  ;  then  it  flashed  upon 
me.  "  You  mean  they  might  intercept  it?  How 
can  you  imply  any  thing  so  base  ?  "  I  indignantly 
demanded. 

"  It's  not  I  ;  it's  Mr.  Pudney  !  "  cried  Mrs. 
Saltram,  with  a  flush.  "It's  his  own  idea." 

"  Then  why  couldn't  he  send  the  letter  to  you  to 
be  delivered?" 

Mrs.  Saltram's  embarrassment  increased  ;  she 
gave  me  another  hard  look.  "  You  must  make 
that  out  for  yourself." 

I  made  it  out  quickly  enough.  "  It's  a  denuncia 
tion  ?  " 

"  A  real  lady  doesn't  betray  her  husband  !  "  this 
virtuous  woman  exclaimed. 

I  burst  out  laughing,  and  I  fear  my  laugh  may 
have  had  an  effect  of  impertinence. 


142  THE    COXON   FUND 

"  Especially  to  Miss  Anvoy,  who's  so  easily 
shocked?  Why  do  such  things  concern  her?  "  I 
asked,  much  at  a  loss. 

"Because  she's  there,  exposed  to  all  his  craft. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pudney  have  been  watching  this  ; 
they  feel  she  may  be  taken  in." 

"  Thank  you  for  all  the  rest  of  us  !  What  differ 
ence  can  it  make  when  she  has  lost  her  power  to 
contribute  ?  " 

Again  Mrs.  Saltram  considered ;  then  very  nobty, 
"  There  are  other  things  in  the  world  than  money," 
she  remarked.  This  hadn't  occurred  to  her  so  long 
as  the  young  lady  had  any;  but  she  now  added, 
with  a  glance  at  my  letter,  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Pudney  doubtless  explained  their  motives.  "It's 
all  in  kindness,"  she  continued  as  she  got  up. 

"  Kindness  to  Miss  Anvoy  ?  You  took,  on  the 
whole,  another  view  of  kindness  before  her 
reverses." 

My  companion  smiled  with  some  acidity.  "  Per 
haps  you're  no  safer  than  the  Mulvilles  ! " 

I  didn't  want  her  to  think  that,  nor  that  she 
should  report  to  the  Pudneys  that  they  had  not 
been  happy  in  their  agent  ;  and  I  well  remember 
that  this  was  the  moment  at  which  I  began,  with 
considerable  emotion,  to  promise  myself  to  enjoin 
upon  Miss  Anvoy  never  to  open  any  letter  that 
should  come  to  her  in  one  of  those  penny  envelopes. 
My  emotion  and  I  fear  I  must  add  my  confusion 
quickly  deepened  ;  I  presently  should  have  been 
as  glad  to  frighten  Mrs.  Saltram  as  to  think  I  might 


THE    COXON   FUND  143 

by  some  diplomacy  restore  the  Pudneys  to  a  quieter 
vigilance. 

"  It's  best  you  should  take  my  view  of  my  safety," 
I  at  any  rate  soon  responded.  When  I  saw  she 
didn't  know  what  I  meant  by  this  I  added  :  "  You 
may  turn  out  to  have  done,  in  bringing  me  this 
letter,  a  thing  you  will  profoundly  regret."  My 
tone  had  a  significance  which,  I  could  see,  did  make 
her  uneasy,  and  there  was  a  moment,  after  I  had 
made  two  or  three  more  remarks  of  studiously 
bewildering  effect,  at  which  her  eyes  followed  so 
hungrily  the  little  flourish  of  the  letter  with  which 
I  emphasized  them  that  I  instinctively  slipped  Mr. 
Pudney's  communication  into  my  pocket.  She 
looked,  in  her  embarrassed  annoyance,  as  if  she 
might  grab  it  and  send  it  back  to  him.  I  felt,  after 
she  had  gone,  as  if  I  had  almost  given  her  my  word 
I  wouldn't  deliver  the  enclosure.  The  passionate 
movement,  at  any  rate,  with  which,  in  solitude,  I 
transferred  the  whole  thing,  unopened,  from  my 
pocket  to  a  drawer  which  I  double-locked  would 
have  amounted  for  an  initiated  observer  to  some 
such  promise. 


XII 


MKS.  SALTKAM  left  me  drawing  my  breath  more 
quickly  and,  indeed,  almost  in  pain,  as  if  I  had  just 
perilously  grazed  the  loss  of  something  precious. 
I  didn't  quite  know  what  it  was  ;  it  had  a  shocking 


144  THE    COXON    FUND 

resemblance  to  my  honor.  The  emotion  was  the 
livelier,  doubtless,  in  that  my  pulses  were  still 
shaken  with  the  rejoicing  with  which,  the  night 
before,  I  had  rallied  to  the  rare  analyst,  the  great 
intellectual  adventurer  and  pathfinder.  What  had 
dropped  from  me  like  a  cumbersome  garment,  as 
Saltram  appeared  before  me  in  the  afternoon  on 
the  heath,  was  the  disposition  to  haggle  over  his 
value.  Hang  it,  one  had  to  choose  !  one  had  to  put 
that  value  somewhere  ;  so  I  would  put  it  really 
high  and  have  done  with  it.  Mrs.  Mulville  drove 
in  for  him  at  a  discreet  hour — the  earliest  she 
could  suppose  him  to  have  got  up  ;  and  I  learned 
that  Miss  Anvoy  would  also  have  come  had  she 
not  been  expecting  a  visit  from  Mr.  Gravener.  I 
was  perfectly  mindful  that  I  was  under  bonds  to 
see  this  young  lady,  and  also  that  I  had  a  letter  to 
deliver  to  her  ;  but  I  took  my  time,  I  waited  from 
day  to  day.  I  left  Mrs.  Saltram  to  deal,  as  her 
apprehensions  should  prompt,  with  the  Pudneys. 
I  knew  at  last  what  I  meant — I  had  ceased  to 
wince  at  my  responsibility.  I  gave  this  supreme 
impression  of  Saltram  time  to  fade,  if  it  would  ; 
but  it  didn't  fade,  and,  individual^,  it  has  not 
faded  even  now.  During  the  month  that  I  thus 
invited  myself  to  stiffen  again,  Adelaide  Mulville, 
perplexed  by  my  absence,  wrote  to  me  to  ask  why 
I  was  so  stiff.  At  that  season  of  the  year  I  was 
usually  oftener  with  them.  She  also  wrote  that  she 
feared  a  real  estrangement  had  set  in  between  Mr. 
Gravener  and  her  sweet  young  friend — a  state  of 


THE    COXON   FUND  145 

things  only  partly  satisfactory  to  her  so  long  as 
the  advantage  accruing  to  Mr.  Saltram  failed  to 
disengage  itself  from  the  merely  nebulous  state, 
She  intimated  that  her  sweet  young  friend  was,  if 
any  thing,  a  trifle  too  reserved  ;  she  also  intimated 
that  there  might  now  be  an  opening  for  another 
clever  young  ir>  in.  There  never  was  the  slightest 
opening,  I  may  here  parenthesize,  and  of  course 
the  question  can't  come  up  to-day.  These  are  old 
frustrations  now.  Ruth  Anvoy  has  not  married, 
I  hear,  and  neither  have  I.  During  the  month, 
toward  the  end,  I  wrote  to  George  Gravener  to 
ask  if,  on  a  special  errand,  I  might  come  to  see 
him,  and  his  answer  was  to  knock  the  very  next 
day  at  my  door.  I  saw  he  had  immediately  con 
nected  my  enquiry  with  the  talk  we  had  had  in  the 
railway  carriage,  and  his  promptitude  showed  that 
the  ashes  of  his  eagerness  were  not  yet  cold.  I 
told  him  there  was  something  I  thought  I  ought  in 
candor  to  let  him  know  ;  I  recognized  the  obliga 
tion  his  friendly  confidence  had  laid  upon  me. 

"  You  mean  that  Miss  Anvoy  has  talked  to  you? 
She  has  told  me  so  herself,"  he  said. 

"  It  was  not  to  tell  you  so  that  I  wanted  to  see 
you,"  I  replied  ;  "  for  it  seemed  to  me  that  such  a 
communication  would  rest  wholly  with  herself.  If, 
however,  she  did  speak  to  you  of  our  conversation, 
she  probably  told  you  I  was  discouraging." 

"  Discouraging  ?  " 

"On  the  subject  of  a  present  application  of  the 
Coxon  Fund." 
10 


146  THE    COXON    FUND 

"  To  the  case  of  Mr.  Saltram  ?  My  dear  fel 
low,  I  don't  know  what  you  call  discouraging  ! " 
Gravener  exclaimed. 

"Well,  I  thought  I  was,  and  I  thought  she 
thought  I  was." 

"I  believe  she  did,  but  such  a  thing  is  measured 
by  the  effect.  She's  not  discouraged." 

"  That's  her  own  affair.  The  reason  I  asked  you 
to  see  me  was  that  it  appeared  to  me.  I  ought 
to  tell  you  frankly  that  decidedly  I  can't  under 
take  to  produce  that  effect.  In  fact  I  don't 
want  to  ! " 

"  It's  very  good  of  you,  d you  ! "  my  visitor 

laughed,  red  and  really  grave.  Then  he  said  : 
"  You  would  like  to  see  that  fellow  publicly  glori 
fied — perched  on  the  pedestal  of  a  great  compli 
mentary  fortune  ?  " 

"  Taking  one  form  of  public  recognition  with 
another,  it  seemed  to  me,  on  the  whole,  I  could 
bear  it.  When  I  see  the  compliments  that  are 
paid  right  and  left,  I  ask  myself  why  this  one 
shouldn't  take  its  course.  This,  therefore,  is  what 
you're  entitled  to  have  looked  to  me  to  mention  to 
you.  I  have  some  evidence  that  perhaps  would 
be  really  dissuasive,  but  I  propose  to  invite  Miss 
Anvoy  to  remain  in  ignorance  of  it." 

"  And  to  invite  me  to  do  the  same  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  don't  require  it ;  you've  evidence 
enough.  I  speak  of  a  sealed  letter  which  I've  been 
requested  to  deliver  to  her." 

"  And  you  don't  mean  to  ?  " 


THE    COXON   FUND  147 

"There's  only  one  consideration  that  would 
make  me." 

Gravener's  clear,  handsome  eyes  plunged  into 
mine  a  minute,  but  evidently  without  fishing  up 
a  clew  to  this  motive — a  failure  by  which  I  was 
almost  wounded.  "  What  does  the  letter  con 
tain  ?  " 

"It's  sealed,  as  I  tell  you,  and  I  don't  know 
what  it  contains." 

"  Why  is  it  sent  through  you  ?  " 

"Rather  than  you?"  I  hesitated  a  moment. 
"  The  only  explanation  I  can  think  of  is  that  the 
person  sending  it  may  have  imagined  your  rela 
tions  with  Miss  Anvoy  to  be  at  an  end — may  have 
been  told  this  is  the  case  by  Mrs.  Saltram." 

"  My  relations  with  Miss  Anvoy  are  not  at  an 
end,"  poor  Gravener  stammered. 

Again,  for  an  instant,  I  deliberated.  "  The  offer 
I  propose  to  make  you  gives  me  the  right  to 
put  a  question  remarkably  direct.  Are  you  still 
engaged  to  Miss  Anvoy  ?  " 

"  No,  I'm  not,"  he  slowly  brought  out.  "  But 
we're  perfectly  good  friends." 

"  Such  good  friends  that  you  will  again  become 
prospective  husband  and  wife  if  the  obstacle  in 
your  path  be  removed  ?  " 

"  Removed  ?  "  Gravener  anxiously  repeated. 

"  If  I  give  Miss  Anvoy  the  letter  I  speak  of,  she 
may  drop  her  project." 

"  Then,  for  God's  sake  give  it  !  " 

"  I'll  do  so  if  you're  ready  to  assure  me  that  her 


148  THE   COXON   FUND 

dropping  it  would   now  presumably  bring  about 
your  marriage." 

"  I'd  marry  her  the  next  day  !  "  my  visitor  cried. 
"  Yes,  but  would  she  marry  you  ?  What  I  ask 
of  you,  of  course,  is  nothing  less  than  your  word  of 
honor  as  to  your  conviction  of  this.  If  you  give 
it  me,"  I  said,  "  I'll  engage  to  hand  her  the  letter 
before  night." 

Gravener  took  up  his  hat;  turning  it  mechanic 
ally  round,  he  stood  looking  a  moment  hard  at  its 
unruffled  perfection.  Then,  very  angrily,  honestly, 
and  gallantly:  "Hand  it  to  the  devil !  "  he  broke 
out  ;  with  which  he  clapped  the  hat  on  his  head 
and  left  me. 

"Will  you  read  it  or  not?"  I  said  to  Ruth  An- 
voy  at  Wimbledon,  when  I  had  told  her  the  story 
of  Mrs.  Saltram's  visit. 

She  reflected  for  a  period  which  was  probably 
of  the  briefest,  but  which  was  long  enough  to  make 
me  nervous.     "Have  you  brought  it  with  you?" 
"  No,  indeed.     It's  at  home  locked  up." 
There  was  another  great  silence,  and  then  she 
said  :  "  Go  back  and  destroy  it." 

I  went  back,  but  I  didn't  destroy  it  till  after  Salt- 
ram's  death,  when  I  burned  it  unread.  The  Pud- 
neys  approached  her  again  pressingly,  but,  prompt 
as  they  were,  the  Coxon  Fund  had  already  become 
an  operative  benefit  and  a  general  amaze  :  Mr. 
Saltram,  while  we  gathered  about,  as  it  were,  to 
watch  the  manna  descend,  was  already  drawing  the 
magnificent  income.  He  drew  it  as  he  had  always 


THE    COXON    FUND  149 

drawn  every  thing,  with  a  grand,  abstracted  gesture. 
Its  magnificence,  alas,  as  all  the  world  now  knows, 
quite  quenched  him  ;  it  was  the  beginning  of  his 
decline.  It  was  also  naturally  a  new  grievance  for 
his  wife,  who  began  to  believe  in  him  as  soon  as  he 
was  blighted,  and  who  at  this  hour  accuses  us  of 
having  bribed  him,  on  the  whim  of  a  meddlesome 
American,  to  renounce  his  glorious  office,  to  become, 
as  she  says,  like  every  body  else.  The  very  day 
he  found  himself  able  to  publish  he  wholly  ceased 
to  produce.  This  deprived  us,  as  may  easily  be 
imagined,  of  much  of  our  occupation,  and  especially 
deprived  the  Mulvilles,  whose  want  of  self-support 
I  never  measured  till  they  lost  their  great  inmate. 
They  have  no  one  to  live  on  now.  Adelaide's 
most  frequent  reference  to  their  destitution  is  em 
bodied  in  the  remark  that  dear  far-away  Ruth's 
intentions  were  doubtless  good.  She  and  Kent 
are  even  yet  looking  for  another  prop,  but  no  one 
presents  a  true  sphere  of"  usefulness.  They  com 
plain  that  people  are  self-sufficing.  With  Saltram 
the  fine  type  of  the  child  of  adoption  was  scat 
tered,  the  grander,  the  elder  style.  They  have 
got  their  carriage  back,  but  what's  an  empty 
carriage  ?  In  short  I  think  we  were  all  happier 
as  well  as  poorer  before  ;  even  including  George 
Gravener,  who,  by  the  deaths  of  his  brother  and 
his  nephew,  has  lately  become  Lord  Maddock. 
His  wife,  whose  fortune  clears  the  property,  is 
criminally  dull  ;  he  hates  being  in  the  Upper 
House,  and  he  has  not  yet  had  high  office.  But 


150  THE    COXON   FUND 

what  are  these  accidents,  which  I  should,  per 
haps,  apologize  for  mentioning,  in  the  light  of 
the  great  eventual  boon  promised  the  patient 
by  the  rate  at  which  the  Coxon  Fund  must  be 
rolling  tip  ? 


THE  MIDDLE  YEARS 

THE  April  day  was  soft  and  bright,  and  poor 
Dencombe,  happy  in  the  conceit  of  reasserted 
strength,  stood  in  the  garden  of  the  hotel,  com 
paring,  with  a  deliberation  in  which,  however, 
there  was  still  something  of  languor,  the  attrac 
tions  of  easy  strolls.  He  liked  the  feeling  of  the 
south,  so  far  as  you  could  have  it  in  the  north,  he 
liked  the  sandy  cliffs  and  the  clustered  pines,  he 
liked  even  the  colorless  sea.  "  Bournemouth  as  a 
health-resort  "  had  sounded  like  a  mere  advertise 
ment,  but  now  he  was  reconciled  to  the  prosaic. 
The  sociable  country  postman,  passing  through  the 
garden,  had  just  given  him  a  small  parcel,  which 
he  took  out  with  him,  leaving  the  hotel  to  the 
right  and  creeping  to  a  convenient  bench  that  he 
knew  of,  a  safe  recess  in  the  cliff.  It  looked  to  the 
south,  to  the  tinted  walls  of  the  Island,  and  was 
protected  behind  by  the  sloping  shoulder  of  the 
down.  '•  He  was  tired  enough  when  he  reached  it, 
and  for  a  moment  he  was  disappointed  ;  he  was 
better,  of  course,  but  better,  after  all,  than  what  ? 
He  should  never  again,  as  at  one  or  two  great 
moments  of  the  past,  be  better  than  himself.  TJie 
infinite  of  life  had  gone,  and  what  was  left  of  the 
dose  was  a  small  glass  engraved  like  a  ther- 


152  THE    MIDDLE    YEAES 

mometer  by  the  apothecary.  He  sat  and  stared 
at  the  sea,  which  appeared  all  surface  and  twinkle, 
far  shallower  than  the  spirit  of  man.  It  was  the 
abyss  of  human  illusion  that  was  the  real,  the 
tideless  deep.  He  held  his  packet,  which  had 
come  by  book-post,  unopened  on  his  knee,  liking, 
in  the  lapse  of  so  many  joys  (his  illness  had  made 
him  feel  his  age),  to  know  that  it  was  there,  but 
taking  for  granted  there  could  be  no  complete 
renewal  of  the  pleasure,  dear  to  young  expe 
rience,  of  seeing  one's  self  "  just  out."  Den- 
combe,  who  had  a  reputation,  had  come  out  too 
often  and  knew  too  well  in  advance  how  he  should 
look. 

His  postponement  associated  itself  vaguely,  after 
a  little,  with  a  group  of  three  persons,  two  ladies 
and  a  young  man,  whom,  beneath  him,  straggling 
and  seemingly  silent,  he  could  see  move  slowly 
together  along  the  sands.  The  gentleman  had 
his  head  bent  over  a  book,  and  was  occasionally 
brought  to  a  stop  by  the  charm  of  this  volume, 
which,  as  Dencombe  could  perceive  even  at  a  dis 
tance,  had  a  cover  alluringly  red.  Then  his  com 
panions,  going  a  little  further,  waited  for  him  to 
come  up,  poking  their  parasols  into  the  beach,  look 
ing  around  them  at  the  sea  and  sky,  and  clearly 
sensible  of  the  beauty  of  the  day.  To  these  things 
the  young  man  with  the  book  was  still  more  clearly 
indifferent  ;  lingering,  credulous,  absorbed,  he  was 
an  object  of  envy  to  an  observer  from  whose  con 
nection  with  literature  all  such  artlessness  had 


THE   MIDDLE    YEARS  153 

faded.  One  of  the  ladies  was  large  and  mature  ; 
the  other  had  the  spareness  of  comparative  youth 
and  of  a  social  situation  possibly  inferior.  The 
large  lady  carried  back  Dencombe's  imagination  to 
the  age  of  crinoline  ;  she  wore  a  hat  of  the  shape 
of  a  mushroom,  decorated  with  a  blue  veil,  and 
had  the  air,  in  her  aggressive  amplitude,  of  cling 
ing  to  a  vanished  fashion  or  even  a  lost  cause. 
Presently  her  companion  produced  from  under  the 
folds  of  a  mantle  a  limp,  portable  chair  which  she 
stiffened  out  and  of  which  the  large  lady  took 
possession.  This  act,  and  something  in  the  move 
ment  of  either  party,  instantly  characterized  the 
performers — they  performed  for  Dencombe's  rec 
reation — as  opulent  matron  and  humble  depend 
ent.  What,  moreover,  was  the  use  of  being  an 
approved  novelist  if  one  couldn't  establish  a  rela 
tion  between  such  figures  ;  the  clever  theory,  for 
instance,  that  the  young  man  was  the  son  of  the 
opulent  matron,  and  that  the  humble  dependent, 
the  daughter  of  a  clerg}^man  or  an  officer,  nourished 
a  secret  passion  for  him  ?  Was  that  not  visible 
from  the  way  she  stole  behind  her  protectress  to 
look  back  at  him  ?  back  to  where  he  had  let  him 
self  come  to  a  full  stop  when  his  mother  sat  down 
to  rest.  His  book  was  a  novel ;  it  had  the  catch 
penny  cover,  and  while  the  romance  of  life  stood 
neglected  at  his  side  he  lost  himself  in  that  of  the 
circulating  library.  He  moved  mechanically  to 
where  the  sand  was  softer,  and  ended  by  plumping 
down  in  it  to  finish  his  chapter  at  his  ease.  The 


154  THE    MIDDLE    YEARS 

humble  dependent,  discouraged  by  his  remoteness, 
wandered,  with  a  martyred  droop  of  the  head,  in 
another  direction,  and  the  exorbitant  lady,  watch 
ing  the  waves,  offered  a  confused  resemblance  to  a 
flying-machine  that  had  broken  down. 

When  his  drama  began  to  fail  Dencombe  remem 
bered  that  he  had,  after  all,  another  pastime. 
Though  such  promptitude  on  the  part  of  the 
publisher  was  rare,  he  was  already  able  to  draw 
from  its  wrapper  his  "  latest,"  perhaps  his  last. 
The  cover  of  "  The  Middle  Years  "  was  duly  meretri 
cious,  the  smell  of  the  fresh  pages  the  very  odor 
of  sanctity  ;  but  for  the  moment  he  wrent  no 
further — he  had  become  conscious  of  a  strange 
alienation.  He  had  forgotten  what  his  book  was 
about.  Had  the  assault  of  his  old  ailment,  which 
he  had  so  fallaciously  come  to  Bournemouth  to 
ward  off,  interposed  utter  blankness  as  to  what  had 
preceded  it  ?  He  had  finished  the  revision  of  proof 
before  quitting  London,  but  his  subsequent  fort 
night  in  bed  had  passed  the  sponge  over  color.  He 
couldn't  have  chanted  to  himself  a  single  sentence, 
couldn't  have  turned  with  curiosity  or  confidence 
to  any  particular  page.  His  subject  had  already 
gone  from  him,  leaving  scarcely  a  superstition 
behind.  He  uttered  a  low  moan  as  he  breathed 
the  chill  of  this  dark  void,  so  desperately  it  seemed 
to  represent  the  completion  of  a  sinister  process. 
The  tears  filled  his  mild  eyes  ;  something  precious 
had  passed  away.  This  was  the  pang  that  had 
been  sharpest  during  the  last  few  years — the  sense 


THE    MIDDLE    YEAKS  155 

of  ebbing  time,  of  shrinking  opportunity  ;  and  now 
he  felt  not  so  much  that  his  last  chance  was  going 
as  that  it  was  gone  indeed.  He  had  done  all  that 
he  should  ever  do,  and  yet  he  had  not  done  what 
he  wanted.  This  was  the  laceration — that  practi 
cally  his  career  was  over  ;  it  was  as  violent  as  a 
rouo-h  hand  at  his  throat.  He  rose  from  his  seat 

G 

nervously,  like  a  creature  hunted  by  a  dread  ;  then 
he  felt  back  in  his  weakness  and  nervously  opened 
his  book.  It  was  a  single  volume  ;  he  preferred 
single  volumes  and  aimed  at  a  rare  compression. 
He  began  to  read,  and  little  by  little,  in  this  occu 
pation,  he  was  pacified  and  reassured.  Every  thing 
came  back  to  him,  but  came  back  with  a  wonder, 
came  back,  above  all,  with  a  high  and  magnificent 
beauty.  He  read  his  own  prose,  he  turned  his  own 
leaves,  and  had,  as  he  sat  there  with  the  spring 
sunshine  on  the  page,  an  emotion  peculiar  and 
intense.  His  career  was  over,  no  doubt,  but  it  was 
over,  after  all,  with  that. 

He  had  forgotten  during  his  illness  the  work  of 
the  previous  year  ;  but  what  he  had  chiefly  for 
gotten  was  that  it  was  extraordinarily  good.  He 
lived  once  more  into  his  story  and  was  drawn 
down,  as  by  a  siren's  hand,  to  where,  in  the  dim 
underworld  of  fiction,  the  great  glazed  tank  of  art, 
strange,  silent  subjects  float.  He  recognized  his 
motive  and  surrendered  to  his  talent.  Never, 
probably,  had  that  talent,  such  as  it  was,  been  so 
fine.  His  difficulties  were  still  there,  but  what  was 
also  there,  to  his  perception,  though  probably, 


156  THE   MIDDLE    YEARS 

alas  !  to  nobody's  else,  was  the  art  that  in  most 
cases  bad  surmounted  them.  In  his  surprised 
enjoyment  of  this  ability  he  had  a  glimpse  of 
a  possible  reprieve.  Surely  its  force  was  not 
spent — there  were  life  and  service  in  it  yet.  It 
had  not  come  to  him  easily,  it  had  been  backward 
and  roundabout.  It  was  the  child  of  time,  the 
nursling  of  delay;  he  had  struggled  and  suffered 
for  it,  making  sacrifices  not  to  be  counted,  and 
now  that  it  was  really  mature  was  it  to  cease  to 
yield,  to  confess  itself  brutally  beaten  ?  There 
was  an  infinite  charm  for  Dencombe  in  feeling 
as  he  had  never  felt  before  that  diligence  vincit 
omnia.  The  result  produced  in  his  little  book  was 
somehow  a  result  beyond  his  conscious  intention  : 
it  was  as  if  he  had  planted  his  genius,  had  trusted 
his  method,  and  they  had  grown  up  and  flowered 
with  this  sweetness.  If  the  achievement  had  been 
real,  however,  the  process  had  been  manful 
enough.  What  he  saw  so  intensely  to-day,  what 
he  felt  as  a  nail  driven  in,  was  that  only  now,  at 
the  very  last,  had  he  come  into  possession.  His 
development  had  been  abnormally  slow,  almost 
grotesquely  gradual.  He  had  been  hindered  and 
retarded  by  experience,  and  for  long  periods  had 
only  groped  his  way.  It  had  taken  too  much  of 
his  life  to  produce  too  little  of  his  art.  The 
art  had  come,  but  it  had  come  after  every  thing 
else.  At  such  a  rate  a  first  existence  was  too 
short — long  enough  only  to  collect  material  ;  so 
that  to  fructify,  to  use  the  material,  one  must 


THE    MIDDLE    YEARS  157 

have  a  second  age,  an  extension.  This  extension 
was  what  poor  Dencombe  sighed  for.  As  he 
turned  the  last  leaves  of  his  volume  he  murmured  : 
"Ah,  for  another  go  !  ah,  for  a  better  chance  !  " 

The  three  persons  he  had  observed  on  the  sands 
had  vanished  and  then  reappeared  ;  they  had  now 
wandered  up  a  path,  an  artificial  and  easy  ascent, 
which  led  to  the  top  of  the  cliff.  Dencombe's 
bench  was  half-way  down,  on  a  sheltered  ledge, 
and  the  large  lady,  a  massive,  heterogeneous  per 
son,  with  bold  black  eyes  and  kind  red  cheeks,  now 
took  a  few  moments  to  rest.  She  wore  dirty 
gauntlets  and  immense  diamond  ear-rings ;  at 
first  she  looked  vulgar,  but  she  contradicted  this 
announcement  in  an  agreeable  off-hand  tone. 
While  her  companions  stood  waiting  for  her  she 
spread  her  skirts  on  the  end  of  Dencombe's  seat. 
The  young  man  had  gold  spectacles,  through 
which,  with  his  finger  still  in  his  red-covered  book, 
he  glanced  at  the  volume,  bound  in  the  same 
shade  of  the  same  color,  lying  on  the  lap  of  the 
original  occupant  of  the  bench.  After  an  instant 
Dencombe  understood  that  he  was  struck  with  a 
resemblance,  had  recognized  the  gilt  stamp  on  the 
crimson  cloth,  was  reading  "  The  Middle  Years," 
and  now  perceived  that  somebody  else  had  kept 
pace  with  him.  The  stranger  was  startled,  pos 
sibly  even  a  little  ruffled,  to  find  that  he  was  not  the 
only  person  who  had  been  favored  with  an  early 
copy.  The  eyes  of  the  two  proprietors  met  for  a 
moment,  and  Dencombe  borrowed  amusement  from 


158  THE    MIDDLE    YEAES 

the  expression  of  those  of  his  competitor,  those, 
it  might  even  be  inferred,  of  his  admirer.  They 
confessed  to  some  resentment — they  seemed  to 
say  :  "  Hang  it,  lias  he  got  it  already  ?  Of  course 
he's  a  brute  of  a  reviewer  !  "  Dencornbe  shuffled 
his  copy  out  of  sight  while  the  opulent  matron, 
rising  from  her  repose,  broke  out  :  "  I  feel  already 
the  good  of  this  air  !  " 

"  I  can't  say  I  do,"  said  the  angular  lady.  "  I 
find  myself  quite  let  down." 

"  I  find  myself  horribly  hungry.  At  what  time 
did  you  order  lunch  ?  "  her  protectress  pursued. 

The  young  person  put  the  question  by.  "Dr. 
Hugh  always  orders  it." 

"  I  ordered  nothing  to-day — I'm  going  to  make 
you  diet,"  said  their  comrade. 

"  Then  I  shall  go  home  and  sleep.  Qui  dort 
dine  !  " 

"  Can  I  trust  you  to  Miss  Vernham  ? "  asked 
Dr.  Hugh  of  his  elder  companion. 

"  Don't  I  trust  you?  "  she  archly  enquired. 

"  Not  too  much  !  "  Miss  Vernham,  with  her  eyes 
on  the  ground,  permitted  herself  to  declare.  "  You 
must  come  with  us  at  least  to  the  house,"  she 
went  on,  while  the  personage  on  whom  they 
appeared  to  be  in  attendance  began  to  mount 
higher.  She  had  got  a  little  out  of  ear-shot  ; 
nevertheless  Miss  Vernham  became,  as  far  as  Den- 
combe  was  concerned,  less  distinctly  audible  to 
murmur  to  the  young  man  :  "  I  don't  think  you 
realize  all  you  owe  the  countess  !  " 


THE    MIDDLE    YEAKS  159 

Absently,  a  moment,  Dr.  Hugh  caused  his  gold- 
rimmed  spectacles  to  shine  at  her. 

"  Is  that  the  way  I  strike  you  ?     I  see — I  see  !  " 

"She's  awfully  good  to  us,"  continued  Miss 
Vernham,  compelled  by  her  interlocutor's  immova 
bility  to  stand  there  in  spite  of  his  discussion  of 
private  matters.  Of  what  use  would  it  have  been 
that  Dencombe  should  be  sensitive  to  shades  had 
he  not  detected  in  that  immovability  a  strange 
influence  from  the  quiet  old  convalescent  in  the 
great  tweed  cape  ?  Miss  Vernham  appeared  sud 
denly  to  become  aware  of  some  such  connection, 
for  she  added  in  a  moment :  "If  you  want  to  sun 
yourself  here  you  can  come  back  after  you've  seen 
us  home." 

Dr.  Hugh,  at  this,  hesitated,  and  Dencombe, 
in  spite  of  a  desire  to  pass  for  unconscious,  risked 
a  covert  glance  at  him.  What  his  eyes  met  this 
time,  as  it  happened,  was  on  the  part  of  the  young 
lady  a  queer  stare,  naturally  vitreous,  which  made 
her  aspect  remind  him  of  some  figure  (he  couldn't 
name  it)  in  a  play  or  a  novel,  some  sinister  governess 
or  tragic  old  maid.  She  seemed  to  scrutinize  him, 
to  challenge  him,  to  say,  from  general  spite  : 
"  What  have  you  got  to  do  with  us?"  At  the 
same  instant  the  rich  humor  of  the  countess 
reached  them  from  above  :  "  Come,  come,  my  little 
lambs,  you  should  follow  your  old  berg&re!  "  Miss 
Vernham  turned  away  at  this,  pursuing  the  ascent, 
and  Dr.  Hugh,  after  another  mute  appeal  to  Den 
combe  and  a  moment's  evident  demur,  deposited 


160  THE    MIDDLE    YEAKS 

his  book  on  the  bench,  as  if  to  keep  his  place  or 
even  as  a  sign  that  he  would  return,  and  bounded 
without  difficulty  up  the  rougher  part  of  the 
cliff. 

Equally  innocent  and  infinite  are  the  pleasures 
of  observation  and  the  resources  engendered  by 
the  habit  of  analyzing  life.  It  amused  poor  Den- 
combe,  as  he  dawdled  in  his  tepid  air-bath,  to 
think  that  he  was  waiting  for  a  revelation  of  some 
thing  at  the  back  of  a  fine  young  mind.  He  looked 
hard  at  the  book  on  the  end  of  the  bench,  but  he 
wouldn't  have  touched  it  for  the  world.  It  served 
his  purpose  to  have  a  theory  which  should  not  be 
exposed  to  refutation.  He  already  felt  better  of 
his  melancholy ;  he  had,  according  to  his  old 
formula,  put  his  head  at  the  window.  A  passing 
countess  could  draw  off  the  fancy  when,  like  the 
elder  of  the  ladies  who  had  just  retreated,  she  was 
as  obvious  as  the  giantess  of  a  caravan.  It  was 
indeed  general  views  that  were  terrible ;  short 
ones,  contrary  to  an  opinion  sometimes  expressed, 
were  the  refuge,  were  the  remedy.  Dr.  Hugh 
couldn't  possibly  be  any  thing  but  a  reviewer  who 
had  understandings  for  early  copies  with  pub 
lishers  or  with  newspapers.  He  reappeared  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  with  visible  relief  at  finding 
Dencombe  on  the  spot,  and  the  gleam  of  white 
teeth  in  an  embarrassed  but  generous  smile.  He 
was  perceptibly  disappointed  at  the  eclipse  of  the 
other  copy  of  the  book  ;  it  was  a  pretext  the  less 
for  speaking  to  the  stranger.  But  he  spoke  not- 


THE    MIDDLE   YEAES  161 

withstanding  ;  he  held  up  his  own  copy  and  broke 
out  pleadingly  : 

"  Do  say,  if  you  have  occasion  to  speak  of  it, 
that  it's  the  best  thing  he  has  done  yet ! " 

Dencombe  responded  with  a  laugh  :  "  Done  yet " 
was  so  amusing  to  him,  made  such  a  grand  avenue 
of  the  future.  Better  still,  the  young  man  took 
him  for  a  reviewer.  He  pulled  out  "  The  Middle 
Years  "  from  under  his  cape,  but  instinctively  con 
cealed  any  tell-tale  look  of  fatherhood.  This  was 
partly  because  a  person  was  always  a  fool  for  call 
ing  attention  to  his  work.  "  Is  that  what  you're 
going  to  say  yourself  ?  "  he  enquired  of  his  visitor. 

"  I'm  not  quite  sure  I  shall  write  any  thing.  I 
don't  as  a  regular  thing — I  enjoy  in  peace.  But 
it's  awfully  fine." 

Dencombe  debated  a  moment.  If  his  interlo 
cutor  had  begun  to  abuse  him  he  would  have  con 
fessed  on  the  spot  to  his  identity,  but  there  was  no 
harm  in  drawing  him  on  a  little  to  praise.  He  drew 
him  on  with  such  success  that  in  a  few  moments  his 
new  acquaintance,  seated  by  his  side,  was  confess 
ing  candidly  that  Dencombe's  novels  were  the  only 
ones  he  could  read  a  second  time.  He  had  come 
the  day  before  from  London,  where  a  friend  of 
his,  a  journalist,  had  lent  him  his  copy  of  the 
last — the  copy  sent  to  the  office  of  the  journal  and 
already  the  subject  of  a  "notice"  which,  as  was 
pretended  there  (but  one  had  to  allow  for  "  swag 
ger  "),  it  had  taken  a  full  quarter  of  an  hour  to 
prepare.  He  intimated  that  he  was  ashamed  for 
11 


162  THE    MIDDLE    YEAKS 

his  friend,  and  in  the  case  of  a  work  demanding 
and  repaying  study,  of  such  inferior  manners  ;  and, 
with  his  fresh  appreciation  and  inexplicable  wish 
to  express  it,  he  speedily  became  for  poor  Den- 
combe  a  remarkable,  a  delightful  apparition. 
Chance  had  brought  the  weary  man  of  letters 
face  to  face  with  the  greatest  admirer  in  the  new 
generation  whom  it  was  supposable  he  possessed. 
The  admirer,  in  truth,  was  mystifying,  so  rare  a 
case  was  it  to  find  a  bristling  young  doctor — he 
looked  like  a  German  physiologist — enamored  of 
literary  form.  It  was  an  accident,  but  happier 
than  most  accidents,  so  that  Dencombe,  exhilarated 
as  well  as  confounded,  spent  half  an  hour  in  mak 
ing  his  visitor  .talk  while  he  kept  himself  quiet. 
He  explained  his  premature  possession  of  "  The 
Middle  Years"  by  an  allusion  to  the  friendship  of 
the  publisher,  who,  knowing  he  was  at  Bourne 
mouth  for  his  health,  had  paid  him  this  graceful 
attention.  He  admitted  that  he  had  been  ill,  for 
Dr.  Hugh  would  infallibly  have  guessed  it  ;  he 
even  went  so  far  as  to  wonder  whether  he  mightn't 
look  for  some  hygienic  "  tip  "  from  a  personage 
combining  so  bright  an  enthusiasm  with  a  presum 
able  knowledge  of  the  remedies  now  in  vogue.  It 
would  shake  his  faith  a  little  perhaps  to  have  to 
take  a  doctor  seriously  who  could  take  him  so 
seriously,  but  he  enjoyed  this  gushing  modern 
youth,  and  he  felt  with  an  acute  pang  that  there 
would  still  be  work  to  do  in  a  world  in  which  such 
odd  combinations  were  presented.  It  was  not  true, 


THE    MIDDLE    YEARS  163 

what  be  had  tried  for  renunciation's  sake  to  believe, 
that  all  the  combinations  were  exhausted.  They 
were  not,  they  were  not — they  were  infinite  ;  the 
exhaustion  was  in  the  miserable  artist. 

Dr.  Hugh  was  an  ardent  physiologist,  saturated 
with  the  spirit  of  the  age — in  other  words  he  had 
just  taken  his  degree  ;  but  he  was  independent  and 
various,  he  talked  like  a  man  who  would  have  pre 
ferred  to  love  literature  best.  He  would  fain  have 
made  fine  phrases,  but  nature  had  denied  him  the 
trick.  Some  of  the  finest  in  "  The  Middle  Years" 
had  struck  him  inordinately,  and  he  took  the  lib 
erty  of  reading  them  to  Dencombe  in  support  of 
his  plea.  He  grew  vivid,  in  the  balmy  air,  to  his 
companion,  for  whose  deep  refreshment  he  seemed 
to  have  been  sent ;  and  was  particularly  ingenuous 
in  describing  how  recently  he  had  become  ac 
quainted,  and  how  instantly  infatuated,  with  the 
only  man  who  had  put  flesh  between  the  ribs  of 
an  art  that  was  starving  on  superstitions.  He  had 
not  yet  written  to  him — he  was  deterred  by  a 
sentiment  of  respect.  Dencombe  at  this  moment 
felicitated  himself  more  than  ever  on  having  never 
answered  the  photographers.  His  visitor's  atti 
tude  promised  him  a  luxury  of  intercourse,  but  he 
surmised  that  a  certain  security  in  it,  for  Dr.  Hugh, 
would  depend  not  a  little  on  the  countess.  He 
learned  without  delay  with  what  variety  of 
countess  they  were  concerned,  as  well  as  the 
nature  of  the  tie  that  united  the  curious  trio.  The 
large  lady,  an  Englishwoman  by  birth  and  the 


164  THE    MIDDLE    YEAES 

daughter  of  a  celebrated  baritone,  whose  taste, 
without  his  talent,  she  had  inherited,  was  the 
widow  of  a  French  nobleman  and  mistress  of  all 
that  remained  of  the  handsome  fortune,  the  fruit 
of  her  father's  earnings,  that  had  constituted  her 
dower.  Miss  Vernham,  an  odd  creature  but  an 
accomplished  pianist,  was  attached  to  her  person 
at  a  salary.  The  countess  was  generous,  inde 
pendent,  eccentric  ;  she  traveled  with  her  minstrel 
and  her  medical  man.  Ignorant  and  passionate, 
she  had  nevertheless  moments  in  which  she  Avas 
almost  irresistible.  Dencombe  saw  her  sit  for  her 
portrait  in  Dr.  Hugh's  free  sketch,  and  felt  the 
picture  of  his  young  friend's  relation  to  her  frame 
itself  in  his  mind.  This  young  friend,  for  a  rep 
resentative  of  the  new  psychologj^,  was  himself 
easily  hypnotized,  and  if  he  became  abnormally 
communicative  it  was  only  a  sign  of  his  real  sub 
jection.  Dencombe  did  accordingly  what  he 
wanted  with  him,  even  without  being  known  as 
Dencombe. 

Taken  ill  on  a  journey  in  Switzerland  the  coun 
tess  had  picked  him  up  at  an  hotel,  and  the  acci 
dent  of  his  happening  to  please  her  had  made  her 
offer  him,  with  her  imperious  liberality,  terms 
that  couldn't  fail  to  dazzle  a  practitioner  without 
patients  and  whose  resources  had  been  drained  dry 
by  his  studies.  It  was  not  the  way  he  would  have 
elected  to  spend  his  time,  but  it  was  time  that 
would  pass  quickly,  and  meanwhile  she  was  won 
derfully  kind.  She  exacted  perpetual  attention, 


THE    MIDDLE    YEAKS  165 

but  it  was  impossible  not  to  like  her.  He  gave 
details  about  his  queer  patient,  a  "  type  "  if  there 
ever  was  one,  who  had  in  connection  with  her 
flushed  obesity  and  in  addition  to  the  morbid  strain 
of  a  violent  and  aimless  will  a  grave  organic  dis 
order;  but  he  came  back  to  his  loved  novelist, 
whom  he  was  so  good  as  to  pronounce  more  essen 
tially  a  poet  than  many  of  those  who  went  in  for 
verse,  with  a  zeal  excited,  as  all  his  indiscretion 
had  been  excited,  by  the  happy  chance  of  Den- 
combe's  sympathy  and  the  coincidence  of  their 
occupation.  Dencombe  had  confessed  to  a  slight 
personal  acquaintance  with  the  author  of  "  The 
Middle  Years,"  but  had  not  felt  himself  as  ready 
as  he  could  have  wished  when  his  companion,  who 
had  never  yet  encountered  a  being  so  privileged, 
began  to  be  eager  for  particulars.  He  even 
thought  that  Dr.  Hugh's  eye  at  that  moment 
emitted  a  glimmer  of  suspicion.  But  the  young 
man  was  too  inflamed  to  be  shrewd,  and  repeatedly 
caught  up  the  book  to  exclaim  :  "  Did  you  notice 
this  ?  "  or  "  Weren't  you  immensely  struck  with 
that  ?  "  "  There's  a  beautiful  passage  toward  the 
end,"  he  broke  out ;  and  again  he  laid  his  hand 
upon  the  volume.  As  he  turned  the  pages  he 
came  upon  something  else,  while  Dencombe  saw 
him  suddenly  change  color.  He  had  taken  up,  as 
it  lay  on  the  bench,  Dencombe's  copy  instead  of 
his  own,  and  his  neighbor  immediately  guessed  the 
reason  of  his  start.  Dr.  Hugh  looked  grave  an 
instant ;  then  he  said  :  "  I  see  you've  been  altering 


166  THE   MIDDLE   YEARS 

the  text  !  "  Dencombe  was  a  passionate  corrector, 
a  fingerer  of  style  ;  the  last  thing  he  ever  arrived 
at  was  a  form  final  for  himself.  His  ideal  would 
have  been  to  publish  secretly,  and  then,  on  the 
published  text,  treat  himself  to  the  terrified  revise, 
sacrificing  always  a  first  edition  and  beginning  for 
posterity  and  even  for  the  collectors,  poor  dears, 
with  a  second.  This  morning,  in  "The  Middle 
Years,"  his  pencil  had  pricked  a  dozen  lights.  He 
was  amused  at  the  effect  of  the  young  man's 
reproach;  for  an  instant  it  made  him  change  color. 
He  stammered,  at  any  rate,  ambiguously;  then, 
through  a  blur  of  ebbing  consciousness,  sa\v  Dr. 
Hugh's  mystified  eyes.  He  only  had  time  to  feel 
he  was  about  to  be  ill  again — that  emotion,  excite 
ment,  fatigue,  the  heat  of  the  sun,  the  solicitation 
of  the  air,  had  combined  to  play  him  a  trick, 
before,  stretching  out  a  hand  to  his  visitor  with  a 
plaintive  cry,  he  lost  his  senses  altogether. 

Later  he  knew  that  he  had  fainted  and  that  Dr. 
Hugh  had  got  him  home  in  a  bath-chair,  the  con 
ductor  of  which,  prowling  within  hail  for  custom, 
had  happened  to  remember  seeing  him  in  the  gar 
den  of  the  hotel.  He  had  recovered  his  percep 
tion  in  the  transit,  and  had,  in  bed,  that  after 
noon,  a  vague  recollection  of  Dr.  Hugh's  young 
face,  as  they  went  together,  bent  over  him  in  a 
comforting  laugh  and  expressive  of  something 
more  than  a  suspicion  of  his  identity.  That 
identity  was  ineffaceable  now,  and  all  the  more 
that  he  was  disappointed,  disgusted.  He  had  been 


THE    MIDDLE    YEAES  167 

rash,  been  stupid,  had  gone  out  too  soon,  stayed 
out  too  long.  He  oughtn't  to  have  exposed  him 
self  to  strangers,  he  ought  to  have  taken  his  ser 
vant.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  fallen  into  a  hole  too 
deep  to  descry  any  little  patch  of  heaven.  He 
was  confused  about  the  time  that  had  elapsed — he 
pieced  the  fragments  together.  He  had  seen  his 
doctor,  the  real  one,  the  one  who  had  treated  him 
from  the  first  and  who  had  again  been  very  kind. 
His  servant  was  in  and  out  on  tiptoe,  looking  very 
wise  after  the  fact.  He  said  more  than  once  some 
thing  about  the  sharp  young  gentleman.  The  rest 
was  vagueness,  in  so  far  as  it  wasn't  despair.  The 
vagueness,  however,  justified  itself  by  dreams, 
dozing  anxieties  from  which  he  finally  emerged  to 
the  consciousness  of  a  dark  room  and  a  shaded 
candle. 

"  You'll  be  all  right  again — I  know  all  about  you 
now,"  said  a  voice  near  him  that  he  knew  to  be 
young.  Then  his  meeting  with  Dr.  Hugh  came 
back.  He  was  too  discouraged  to  joke  about  it 
yet,  but  he  was  able  to  perceive,  after  a  little,  that 
the  interest  of  it  was  intense  for  his  visitor.  "  Of 
course  I  can't  attend  you  professionally — you've 
got  your  own  man,  with  whom  I've  talked  and 
who's  excellent,"  Dr.  Hugh  went  on.  "But  you 
must  let  me  come  to  see  you  as  a  good  friend.  I've 
just  looked  in  before  going  to  bed.  You're  doing 
beautifully,  but  it's  a  good  job  I  was  with  you  on 
the  cliff.  I  shall  come  in  early  to-morrow.  I  want 
to  do  something  for  you.  I  want  to  do  every  thing. 


168  THE   MIDDLE    YEAES 

You've  done  a  tremendous  lot  for  me."  The  young 
man  held  his  hand,  hanging  over  him,  and  poor 
Dencombe,  weakly  aware  of  this  living  pressure, 
simply  lay  there  and  accepted  his  devotion.  He 
couldn't  do  any  thing  less — he  needed  help  too 
much. 

The  idea  of  the  help  he  needed  was  very  present 
to  him  that  night,  which  he  spent  in  a  lucid  still 
ness,  an  intensity  of  thought  that  constituted  a 
reaction  from  his  hours  of  stupor.  He  was  lost, 
he  was  lost — he  was  lost  if  he  couldn't  be  saved. 
He  was  not  afraid  of  suffering,  of  death  ;  he  was 
not  even  in  love  with  life  ;  but  he  had  had  a  deep 
demonstration  of  desire.  It  came  over  him  in  the 
long,  quiet  hours  that  only  with  "  The  Middle 
Years  "  had  he  taken  his  flight;  only  on  that  day, 
visited  by  soundless  processions,  had  he  recognized 
his  kingdom.  He  had  had  a  revelation  of  his 
range.  What  he  dreaded  was  the  idea  that  his 
reputation  should  stand  on  the  unfinished.  It  was 
not  with  his  past  but  with  his  future  that  it  should 
properly  be  concerned.  Illness  and  age  rose  before 
him  like  spectres  with  pitiless  eyes:  how  was  he  to 
bribe  such  fates  to  give  him  the  second  chance  ? 
He  had  had  the  one  chance  that  all  men  have — he 
had  had  the  chance  of  life.  He  went  to  sleep  again 
very  late,  and  when  he  awoke  Dr.  Hugh  was  sit 
ting  by  his  head.  There  was  already,  by  this  time, 
something  beautifully  familiar  in  him. 

"Don't  think  I've  turned  out  j^our  physician," 
he  said  ;  "  I'm  acting  with  his  consent.  He  has 


THE    MIDDLE    YEAKS  169 

been  here  and  seen  you.  Somehow  he  seems  to 
trust  me.  I  told  him  how  we  happened  to  come 
together  yesterday,  and  he  recognizes  that  I've  a 
peculiar  right." 

Dencombe  looked  at  him  with  a  calculating 
earnestness.  "  How  have  you  squared  the  count 
ess  ?  " 

The  young  man  blushed  a  little,  but  he  laughed. 
"  Oh,  never  mind  the  countess  ! " 

"  You  told  me  she  was  very  exacting." 

Dr.  Hugh  was  silent  a  moment.     "  So  she  is." 

"  And  Miss  Vernham's  an  intrigante" 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  I  know  every  thing.  One  has  to,  to  write 
decently  ! " 

"I  think  she's  mad,"  said  limpid  Dr.  Hugh. 

"  Well,  don't  quarrel  with  the  countess — she's  a 
present  help  to  you." 

"  I  don't  quarrel,"  Dr.  Hugh  replied.  "  But  I 
don't  get  on  with  silly  women."  Presently  he 
added  :  "  You  seem  very  much  alone." 

"That  often  happens  at  my  age.  I've  outlived, 
I've  lost  by  the  way." 

Dr.  Hugh  hesitated  ;  then  surmounting  a  soft 
scruple  :  "  Whom  have  you  lost  ?  " 

"  Every  one." 

"  Ah,  no  !  "  the  young  man  murmured,  laying  a 
hand  on  his  arm. 

"  I  once  had  a  wife — I  once  had  a  son.  My  wife 
died  when  my  child  was  born,  and  my  boy,  at 
school,  was  carried  off  by  typhoid." 


170  THE   MIDDLE    YEAKS 

"  I  wish  I'd  been  there  ! "  said  Dr.  Hugh 
simply. 

"  Well — if  you're  here  !  "  Dencombe  answered, 
with  a  smile  that,  in  spite  of  dimness,  showed  how 
much  he  liked  to  be  sure  of  his  companion's 
whereabouts. 

"  You  talk  strangely  of  your  age.  You're  not 
old." 

"  Hypocrite — so  early  ! " 

"  I  speak  physiologically." 

"  That's  the  way  I've  been  speaking  for  the  last 
five  years,  and  it's  exactly  what  I've  been  saying 
to  myself.  It  isn't  till  we  are  old  that  we  begin  to 
tell  ourselves  we're  not  !  " 

"  Yet  I  know  I  myself  am  young,"  Dr.  Hugh 
declared. 

"  Not  so  well  as  I  !  "  laughed  his  patient,  whose 
visitor  indeed  would  have  established  the  truth  in 
question  by  the  honesty  with  which  he  changed 
the  point  of  view,  remarking  that  it  must  be  one 
of  the  charms  of  age — at  any  rate  in  the  case  of 
high  distinction — to  feel  that  one  has  labored  and 
achieved.  Dr.  Hugh  employed  the  common 
phrase  about  earning  one's  rest,  and  it  made  poor 
Dencombe,  for  an  instant,  almost  angry.  He 
recovered  himself,  however,  to  explain,  lucidly 
enough,  that  if  he,  ungraciously,  knew  nothing 
of  such  a  balm,  it  was  doubtless  because  he  had 
wasted  inestimable  years.  He  had  followed  Litera 
ture  from  the  first,  but  he  had  taken  a  lifetime  to 
get  alongside  of  her.  Only  to-day,  at  last,  had  he 


THE    MIDDLE    TEAKS  171 

begun  to  see,  so  that  what  he  had  hitherto  done 
was  a  movement  without  a  direction.  He  had 
ripened  too  late,  and  was  so  clumsily  constituted 
that  he  had  had  to  teach  himself  by  mistakes. 

"  I  prefer  your  flowers,  then,  to  other  people's 
fruit,  and  your  mistakes  to  other  people's  suc 
cesses,"  said  gallant  Dr.  Hugh.  "  It's  for  your 
mistakes  I  admire  you." 

"  You're  happy — you  don't  know,"  Den  combe 
answered. 

Looking  at  his  watch  the  young  man  had  got 
up  ;  he  named  the  hour  of  the  afternoon  at  which 
he  would  return.  Dencombe  warned  him  against 
committing  himself  too  deeply,  and  expressed 
again  all  his  dread  of  making  him  neglect  the 
countess — perhaps  incur  her  displeasure. 

"  I  want  to  be  like  you — I  want  to  learn  by  mis 
takes  !  "  Dr.  Hugh  laughed. 

"  Take  care  you  don't  make  too  grave  a  one  ! 
But  do  come  back,"  Dencombe  added,  with  the 
glimmer  of  a  new  idea. 

"  You  should  have  had  more  vanity  ! "  Dr. 
Hugh  spoke  as  if  he  knew  the  exact  amount 
required  to  make  a  man  of  letters  normal. 

"  No,  no — I  only  should  have  had  more  time.  I 
want  another  go." 

"  Another  go  ?  " 

"I  want  an  extension." 

"  An  extension  ?  "  Again  Dr.  Hugh  repeated 
Dencombe's  words,  with  which  he  seemed  to  have 
been  struck. 


172  THE    MIDDLE    YEAES 

"  Don't  you  know  ? — I  want  to  what  they  call 
<  live.' " 

The  young  man,  for  good-by,  had  taken  his 
hand,  which  closed  with  a  certain  force.  They 
looked  at  each  other  hard  a  moment.  "  You  will 
live,"  said  Dr.  Hugh. 

"  Don't  be  superficial.     It's  too  serious  !  " 

"  You  shall  live  !  "  Dencombe's  visitor  declared, 
turning  pale. 

"  Ah,  that's  better  ! "  And  as  he  retired  the 
invalid,  with  a  troubled  laugh,  sank  gratefully 
back. 

All  that  day  and  all  the  following  night  he  won 
dered  if  it  mightn't  be  arranged.  His  doctor  came 
again,  his  servant  was  attentive,  but  it  was  to 
his  confident  young  friend  that  he  found  himself 
mentally  appealing.  His  collapse  on  the  cliff  was 
plausibly  explained,  and  his  liberation,  on  a  better 
basis,  promised  for  the  morrow  ;  meanwhile,  how 
ever,  the  intensity  of  his  meditations  kept  him 
tranquil  and  made  him  indifferent.  The  idea  that 
occupied  him  was  none  the  less  absorbing  because 
it  was  a  morbid  fancy.  Here  was  a  clever  son  of 
the  age,  ingenious  and  ardent,  who  happened  to 
have  set  him  up  for  connoisseurs  to  worship. 
This  servant  of  his  altar  had  all  the  new  learning 
in  science  and  all  the  old  reverence  in  faith  ; 
wouldn't  he  therefore  put  his  knowledge  at  the 
disposal  of  his  sympathy,  his  craft  at  the  disposal 
of  his  love  ?  Couldn't  he  be  trusted  to  invent  a 
remedy  for  a  poor  artist  to  whose  art  he  had 


THE    MIDDLE    YEARS  173 

paid  a  tribute  ?  If  he  couldn't,  the  alternative 
was  hard  :  Dencombe  would  have  to  surrender 
to  silence,  unvindicated  and  undivined.  The  rest 
of  the  day  and  all  the  next  he  toyed  in  secret 
with  this  sweet  futility.  Who  would  work  the 
miracle  for  him  but  the  young  man  who  could 
combine  such  lucidity  with  such  passion  ?  He 
thought  of  the  fairy-tales  of  science,  and  charmed 
himself  into  forgetting  that  he  looked  for  a  magic 
that  was  not  of  this  world.  Dr.  Hugh  was  an 
apparition,  and  that  placed  him  above  the  law. 
He  came  and  went  while  his  patient,  who  sat  up, 
followed  him  with  supplicating  eyes.  The  interest 
of  knowing  the  great  author  had  made  the  young 
man  begin  "  The  Middle  Years "  afresh,  and 
would  help  him  to  find  a  deeper  meaning  in  its 
pages.  Dencombe  had  told  him  what  he  "  tried 
for";  with  all  his  intelligence,  on  a  first  perusal, 
Dr.  Hugh  had  failed  to  guess  it.  The  baffled 
celebrity  wondered  then  who  in  the  world  would 
guess  it;  he  was  amused  once  more  at  the  fine,  full 
way  with  which  an  intention  could  be  missed.  Yet 
he  wouldn't  rail  at  the  general  mind  to-day — consol 
ing  as  that  ever  had  been:  the  revelation  of  his  own 
slowness  had  seemed  to  make  all  stupidity  sacred. 
Dr.  Hugh,  after  a  little,  was  visibly  worried, 
confessing,  on  enquiry,  to  a  source  of  embarass- 
ment  at  home.  "  Stick  to  the  countess — don't 
mind  me,"  Dencombe  said  repeatedly  ;  for  his 
companion  was  frank  enough  about  the  large 
lady's  attitude.  She  was  so  jealous  that  she  had 


174  THE    MIDDLE    YEARS 

fallen  ill — she  resented  such  a  breach  of  allegiance. 
She  paid  so  much  for  his  fidelity  that  she  must 
have  it  all  ;  she  refused  him  the  right  to  other 
sympathies,  charged  him  with  scheming  to  make 
her  die  alone,  for  it  was  needless  to  point  out  how 
little  Miss  Yernham  was  a  resource  in  trouble. 
When  Dr.  Hugh  mentioned  that  the  countess 
would  already  have  left  Bournemouth  if  he  hadn't 
kept  her  in  bed,  poor  Dencombe  held  his  arm 
tighter  and  said  with  decision  :  "  Take  her  straight 
away."  They  had  gone  out  together,  walking 
back  to  the  sheltered  nook  in  which,  the  other 
day,  they  had  met.  The  young  man,  who  had 
given  his  companion  a  personal  support,  declared 
with  emphasis  that  his  conscience  was  clear — he 
could  ride  two  horses  at  once.  Didn't  he  dream, 
for  his  future,  of  a  time  when  he  should  have 
to  ride  five  hundred  ?  Longing  equally  for  virtue, 
Dencombe  replied  that  in  that  golden  age  no 
patient  would  pretend  to  have  contracted  with 
him  for  his  whole  attention.  On  the  part  of  the 
countess  was  not  such  an  avidity  lawful  ?  Dr. 
Hugh  denied  it,  said  there  was  no  contract,  but  only 
a  free  understanding,  and  that  a  sordid  servitude 
was  impossible  to  a  generous  spirit ;  he  liked 
moreover  to  talk  about  art,  and  that  was  the  sub 
ject  on  which,  this  time,  as  they  sat  together  on 
the  sunny  bench,  he  tried  most  to  engage  the 
author  of  "  The  Middle  Years."  Dencombe,  soar 
ing  again  a  little  on  the  weak  wings  of  convales 
cence  and  still  haunted  by  that  happy  notion  of  an 


THE   MIDDLE    YEAKS  175 

organized  rescue,  found  another  strain  of  elo 
quence  to  plead  the  cause  of  a  certain  splendid 
"  last  manner,"  the  very  citadel,  as  it  Avould  prove, 
of  his  reputation,  the  stronghold  into  which  his 
real  treasure  would  be  gathered.  While  his 
listener  gave  up  the  morning  and  the  great  still 
sea  appeared  to  wait,  he  had  a  wonderful  explana 
tory  hour.  Even  for  himself  he  was  inspired  as 
he  told  of  what  his  treasure  would  consist — the 
precious  metals  he  would  dig  from  the  mine,  the 
jewels  rare,  strings  of  pearls,  he  would  hang 
between  the  columns  of  his  temple.  He  was 
wonderful  for  himself,  so  thick  his  convictions 
crowded  ;  but  he  was  still  more  wonderful  for 
Dr.  Hugh,  who  assured  him,  none  the  less,  that 
the  very  pages  he  had  just  published  were  already 
encrusted  with  gems.  The  young  man,  however, 
panted  for  the  combinations  to  come,  and,  before 
the  face  of  the  beautiful  day,  renewed  to  Den- 
combe  his  guarantee  that  his  profession  would 
hold  itself  responsible  for  such  a  life.  Then  he 
suddenly  clapped  his  hand  upon  his  watch-pocket 
and  asked  leave  to  absent  himself  for  half  an  hour. 
Dencombe  waited  there  for  his  return,  but  was  at 
last  recalled  to  the  actual  by  the  fall  of  a  shadow 
across  the  ground.  The  shadow  darkened  into 
that  of  Miss  Vernharn,  the  young  lady  in  attend 
ance  on  the  countess  ;  whom  Dencombe,  recog 
nizing  her,  perceived  so  clearly  to  have  come  to 
speak  to  him  that  he  rose  from  his  bench  to 
acknowledge  the  civility.  Miss  Yernham  indeed 


176  THE   MIDDLE   YEAES 

proved  not  particularly  civil ;  she  looked  strangely 
agitated,  and  her  type  was  now  unmistakable. 

"  Excuse  me  if  I  enquire,"  she  said,  "  whether  it's 
too  much  to  hope  that  you  may  be  induced  to  leave 
Dr.  Hugh  alone."  Then,  before  Dencombe,  greatly 
disconcerted,  could  protest  :  "  You  ought  to  be  in 
formed  that  you  stand  in  his  light  ;  that  you  may 
do  him  a  terrible  injury." 

"Do  you  mean  by  causing  the  countess  to  dis 
pense  with  his  services  ?  " 

"  By  causing  her  to  disinherit  him."  Dencombe 
stared  at  this,  and  Miss  Vernham  pursued,  in  the 
gratification  of  seeing  she  could  produce  an  impres 
sion  :  "  It  has  depended  on  himself  to  come  into 
something  very  handsome.  He  has  had  a  mag 
nificent  prospect,  but  I  think  you've  succeeded  in 
spoiling  it." 

"Not  intentionally,  I  assure  you.  Is  there  no 
hope  that  the  accident  may  be  repaired?"  Dencombe 
asked. 

"  She  was  ready  to  do  any  thing  for  him.  She 
takes  great  fancies,  she  lets  herself  go — it's  her  way. 
She  has  no  relations,  she's  free  to  dispose  of  her 
money,  and  she's  very  ill." 

"  I'm  very  sorry  to  hear  it,"  Dencombe  stam 
mered. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  possible  for  you  to  leave  Bourne 
mouth  ?  That's  what  I've  come  to  ask  of  you." 

Poor  Dencombe  sank  down  on  his  bench.  "  I'm 
very  ill  myself,  but  I'll  try  !  " 

Miss  Vernham  still  stood  there  with  her  colorless 


THE    MIDDLE    YEAES  177 

eyes  and  the  brutality  of  her  good  conscience. 
"  Before  it's  too  late,  please  !  "  she  said  ;  and  with 
this  she  turned  her  back,  in  order,  quickly,  as  if  it 
had  been  a  business  to  which  she  could  spare  but 
a  precious  moment,  to  pass  out  of  his  sight. 

Oh,  yes  !  after  this  Dencombe  was  certainly  very 
ill.  Miss  Vernham  had  upset  him  with  her  rough, 
fierce  news  ;  it  was  the  sharpest  shock  to  him  to  dis 
cover  what  was  at  stake  for  a  penniless  young  man 
of  fine  parts.  He  sat  trembling  on  his  bench, 
staring  at  the  waste  of  waters,  feeling  sick  with  the 
directness  of  the  blow.  He  was  indeed  too  weak, 
too  unsteady,  too  alarmed  ;  but  he  would  make  the 
effort  to  get  away,  for  he  couldn't  accept  the  guilt 
of  interference,  and  his  honor  was  really  involved. 
He  would  hobble  home,  at  any  rate,  and  then  he 
would  think  what  was  to  be  done.  He  made  his 
way  back  to  the  hotel  and,  as  he  went,  had  a 
characteristic  vision  of  Miss  Vernham's  great 
motive.  The,  countess  hated  women,  of  course; 
Dencombe  was  lucid  about  that ;  so  the  hungry 
pianist  had  no  personal  hopes  and  could  only  con 
sole  herself  with  the  bold  conception  of  helping 
Dr.  Hugh  in  order  either  to  marry  him  after  he 
should  get  his  money  or  to  induce  him  to  recognize 
her  title  to  compensation  and  buy  her  off.  If  she 
had  befriended  him  at  a  fruitful  crisis  he  would 
really,  as  a  man  of  delicacy,  and  she  knew  what  to 
think  of  that  point,  have  to  reckon  with  her. 

At  the  hotel  Dencombe's  servant  insisted  on  his 
going  back  to  bed.     The  invalid  had  talked  about 
12 


178  THE    MIDDLE    YEAKS 

catching  a  train  and  had  begun  with  orders  to  pack  ; 
after  which  his  humming  nerves  had  yielded  to  a 
sense  of  sickness.  He  consented  to  see  his  physi 
cian,  who  immediately  was  sent  for,  but  he  wished 
it  to  be  understood  that  his  door  was  irrevocably 
closed  to  Dr.  Hugh.  He  had  his  plan,  which  was 
so  fine  that  he  rejoiced  in  it  after  getting  back  to 
bed.  Dr.  Hugh,  suddenly  finding  himself  snubbed 
without  mercy,  would,  in  natural  disgust  and  to 
the  joy  of  Miss  Vernham,  renew  his  allegiance  to 
the  countess.  When  his  physician  arrived  Den- 
combe  learned  that  he  was  feverish  and  that  this 
was  very  wrong  ;  he  was  to  cultivate  calmness  and 
try,  if  possible,  not  to  think.  For  the  rest  of  the 
day  he  wooed^slupi^ity  ;  but  there  was  an  ache 
that  kept  him  sentient,  the  probable  sacrifice  of  his 
"extension,"  the-^itmt  of  his  course.  His  medical 
adviser  was  any  thing  but  pleased  ;  his  successive 
relapses  were  ominous.  He  charged  this  personage 
to  put  out  a  strong  hand  and  take  Dr.  Hugh  off 
his  mind — it  would  contribute  so  much  to  his  being 
quiet.  The  agitating  name,  in  his  room,  was  not 
mentioned  again,  but  his  security  was  a  smothered 
fear,  and  it  was  not  confirmed  by  the  receipt,  at  ten 
o'clock  that  evening,  of  a  telegram  which  his  servant 
opened  and  read  for  him  and  to  which,  with  an 
address  in  London,  the  signature  of  Miss  Vernham 
was  attached.  "  Beseech  you  to  use  all  influence 
to  make  our  friend  join  us  here  in  the  morning. 
Countess  much  the  worse  for  dreadful  journey,  but 
every  thing  may  still  be  saved."  The  two  ladies  had 


THE    MIDDLE    YEARS  179 

gathered  themselves  up  and  had  been  capable  in 
the  afternoon  of  a  spiteful  revolution.  They  had 
started  for  the  capital,  and  if  the  elder  one,  as  Miss 
Vernham  had  announced,  was  very  ill,  she  had 
wished  to  make  it  clear  that  she  was  proportion 
ately  reckless.  Poor  Dencombe,  who  was  not  reck 
less,  and  who  only  desired  that  every  thing  should 
indeed  be  "  saved,"  sent  this  missive  straight  off  to 
the  young  man's  lodging  and  had  on  the  morrow 
the  pleasure  of  knowing  that  he  had  quitted  Bourne 
mouth  by  an  early  train. 

Two  days  later  he  pressed  in  with  a  copy  of  a 
literary  journal  in  his  hand.  He  had  returned 
because  he  was  anxious  and  for  the  pleasure  of 
flourishing  the  great  review  of  "  The  Middle  Years." 
Here  at  least  was  something  adequate — it  rose  to 
the  occasion  ;  it  was  an  acclamation,  a  reparation, 
a  critical  attempt  to  place  the  author  in  the  niche 
he  had  fairly  won.  Dencombe  accepted  and  sub 
mitted  ;  he  made  neither  objection  nor  enquiry, 
for  old  complications  had  returned  and  he  had  had 
two  atrocious  days.  He  was  convinced  not  only 
that  he  should  never  again  leave  his  bed,  so  that 
his  young  friend  might  pardonably  remain,  but 
that  the  demand  he  should  make  on  the  patience 
of  beholders  would  be  very  moderate  indeed.  Dr. 
Hugh  had  been  to  town,  and  he  tried  to  find  in  his 
eyes  some  confession  that  the  countess  was  pacified 
and  his  legacy  clinched  ;  but  all  he  could  see  there 
was  the  light  of  his  juvenile  joy  in  two  or  three  of 
the  phrases  of  the  newspaper.  Dencombe  couldn't 


180  THE    MIDDLE    YEAES 

read  them,  but  when  his  visitor  had  insisted  on 
repeating  them  more  than  once  he  was  able  to 
shake  an  unintoxicated  head.  "  Ah,  no  !  but  they 
would  have  been  true  of  what  I  could  have  done  !  " 

"  What  people  ( could  have  done J  is  mainly 
what  they've  in  fact  done,"  Dr.  Hugh  contended. 

"  Mainly,  yes  ;  but  I've  been  an  idiot  ! "  said 
Dencombe. 

Dr.  Hugh  did  remain  ;  the  end  was  coming 
fast.  Two  days  later  Dencombe  observed  to  him, 
by  way  of  the  feeblest  of  jokes,  that  there  would 
now  be  no  question  whatever  of  a  second  chance. 
At  this  the  young  man  stared;  then  he  exclaimed: 
"  Why,  it  has  come  to  pass — it  has  come  to  pass  ! 
The  second  chance  has  been  the  public's — the 
chance  to  find  the  point  of  view,  to  pick  up  the 
pearl  ! " 

"  Oh,  the  pearl  ! "  poor  Dencombe  uneasily 
sighed.  A  smile  as  cold  as  a  winter  sunset  flick 
ered  on  his  drawn  lips  as  he  added  :  "  The  pearl 
is  the  unwritten — the  pearl  is  the  unalloyed,  the 
rest,  the  lost  !  " 

From  that  moment  he  was  less  and  less  present, 
heedless  to  all  appearance  of  what  went  on  around 
him.  His  disease  was  definitely  mortal,  of  an 
action  as  relentless,  after  the  short  arrest  that  had 
enabled  him  to  fall  in  with  Dr.  Hugh,  as  a  leak 
in  a  great  ship.  Sinking  steadily,  though  this 
visitor,  a  man  of  rare  resources,  now  cordially 
approved  by  his  physician,  showed  endless  art  in 
guarding  him  from  pain,  poor  Dencombe  kept  no 


THE    MIDDLE    YEAKS  181 

reckoning  of  favor  or  neglect,  betrayed  no  symp 
tom  of  regret  or  speculation.  Yet  toward  the  last 
he  gave  a  sign  of  having  noticed  that  for  two 
days  Dr.  Hugh  had  not  been  in  his  room,  a  sign 
that  consisted  of  his  suddenly  opening  bis  eyes  to 
ask  of  him  if  he  had  spent  the  interval  with  the 
countess. 

"The  countess  is  dead,"  said  Dr.  Hugh.  "I 
knew  that  in  a  particular  contingency  she  wouldn't 
resist.  I  went  to  her  grave." 

Dencombe's  eyes  opened  wider.  "  She  left  you 
'  something  handsome '  ?  " 

The  young  man  gave  a  laugh  almost  too  light 
for  a  chamber  of  woe.  "  Never  a  penny !  She 
roundly  cursed  me." 

"  Cursed  you  ?  "  Dencombe  murmured. 

"  For  giving  her  up.  I  gave  her  up  for  you.  I 
had  to  choose,"  his  companion  explained. 

"  You  chose  to  let  a  fortune  go  ?  " 

"I  chose  to  accept,  whatever  they  might  be, 
the  consequences  of  my  infatuation,"  smiled  Dr. 
Hugh.  Then,  as  a  larger  pleasantry  :  "A  fortune 
be  hanged  !  It's  your  own  fault  if  I  can't  get 
your  things  out  of  my  head." 

The  immediate  tribute  to  his  humor  was  a  long, 
bewildered  moan  ;  after  which,  for  many  hours, 
many  days,  Dencombe  lay  motionless  and  absent. 
A  response  so  absolute,  such  a  glimpse  of  a  definite 
result,  and  such  a  sense  of  credit  worked  together 
in  his  mind  and  producing  a  strange  commotion, 
slowly  altered  and  transfigured  his  despair.  The 


182  THE    MIDDLE    YEARS 

sense  of  cold  submersion  left  him — he  seemed  to 
float  without  an  effort.  The  incident  was  ex 
traordinary  as  evidence,  and  it  shed  an  intenser 
light.  At  the  last  he  signed  to  Dr.  Hugh  to 
listen,  and,  when  he  was  down  on  his  knees  by  the 
pillow,  brought  him  very  near. 

"  You've  made  me  think  it  all  a  delusion." 

"  Not  your  glory,  my  dear  friend,"  stammered 
the  young  man. 

"  Not  my  glory — what  there  is  of  it  !  It  is 
glory — to  have  been  tested,  to  have  had  our  little 
quality,  and  cast  our  little  spell.  The  thing  is  to 
have  made  somebody  care.  You  happen  to  be 
crazy,  of  course,  but  that  doesn't  affect  the 
law." 

"  You're  a  great  success  ! "  said  Dr.  Hugh, 
putting  into  his  young  voice  the  ring  of  a  mar 
riage  bell. 

Dencombe  lay  taking  this  in  ;  then  he  gath 
ered  strength  to  speak  once  more.  "  A  second 
chance — that's  the  delusion.  There  never  was  to 
be  but  one.  We  work  in  the  dark — we  do  what 
we  can — we  give  what  we  have.  Our  doubt  is 
our  passion,  and  our  passion  is  our  task.  The  rest 
is  the  madness  of  art." 

"  If  you've  doubted,  if  you've  despaired,  you've 
always  '  done  '  it,"  his  visitor  subtly  argued. 

"We've  done  something  or  other,"  Dencombe 
conceded. 

"Something  or  other  is  every  thing.  It's  the 
feasible.  It's  you!" 


THE    MIDDLE    YEAES  183 

"  Comforter  !  "  poor  Dencombe  ironically 
sighed. 

"  But  it's  true,"  insisted  his  friend. 

"  It's  true.     It's  frustration  that  doesn't  count." 

"Frustration's  only  life,"  said  Dr.  Hugh. 

"  Yes,  it's  what  passes."  Poor  Dencombe  was 
barely  audible,  but  he  had  marked  with  the  words 
the  virtual  end  of  his  first  and  only  chance. 


THE  ALTAR  OF  THE  DEAD. 


HE  had  a  mortal  dislike,  poor  Stransom,  to  lean 
anniversaries,  and  he  disliked  them  still  more  when 
they  made  a  pretence  of  a  figure.  Celebrations 
and  suppressions  were  equally  painful  to  him,  and 
there  was  only  one  of  the  former  that  found  a 
place  in  his  life.  Again  and  again  he  had  kept  in 
his  own  fashion  the  day  of  the  year  on  which  Mary 
Antrim  died.  It  would  be  more  to  the  point  per 
haps  to  say  that  the  day  kept  him  :  it  kept  him  at 
least,  effectually,  from  doing  any  thing  else.  It 
took  hold  of  him  year  after  year  with  a  hand  of 
which  time  had  softened  but  had  never  loosened 
the  touch.  He  waked  up  to  this  feast  of  memory 
as  consciously  as  lie  would  have  waked  up  to  his 
marriage-morn.  Marriage  had  had,  of  old,  but  too 
little  to  say  to  the  matter  :  for  the  girl  who  was 
to  have  been  his  bride  there  had  been  no  bridal 
embrace.  She  had  died  of  a  malignant  fever  after 
the  wedding-day  had  been  fixed,  and  he  had  lost, 
before  fairly  tasting  it,  an  affection  that  promised 
to  fill  his  life  to  the  brim. 

Of  that  benediction,  however,  it  would  have 
been  false  to  say  this  life  could  really  be  emptied  : 
it  was  still  ruled  by  a  pale  ghost,  it  was  still  or- 


186  THE    ALTAR    OF   THE    DEAD 

dered  by  a  sovereign  presence.  He  had  not  been 
a  man  of  numerous  passions,  and  even  in  all  these 
years  no  sense  had  grown  stronger  with  him  than 
the  sense  of  being  bereft.  He  had  needed  no 
priest  and  no  altar  to  make  him  forever  widowed. 
He  had  done  many  things  in  the  world — he  had 
done  almost  all  things  but  one  :  he  had  never  for 
gotten.  He  had  tried  to  put  into  his  existence 
whatever  else  might  take  up  room  in  it,  but  he  had 
never  made  it  any  thing  but  a  house  of  which  the 
mistress  was  eternally  absent.  She  was  most 
absent  of  all  on  the  recurrent  December  day  that 
his  tenacity  set  apart.  He  had  no  designed  ob 
servance  of  it,  but  his  nerves  made  it  all  their  own. 
They  always  drove  him  forth  on  a  long  walk,  for 
the  goal  of  his  pilgrimage  was  far.  She  had  been 
buried  in  a  London  suburb,  in  a  place  then  almost 
natural,  but  which  he  had  seen  lose,  one  after 
another  every  feature  of  freshness.  It  was  in 
truth  during  the  moments  he  stood  there  that 
his  eyes  beheld  the  place  least.  They  looked  at 
another  image,  they  opened  to  another  light. 
Was  it  a  credible  future  ?  Was  it  an  incredible 
past  ?  Whatever  it  was,  it  was  an  immense  escape 
from  the  actual. 

It  is  true  that,  if  there  were  no  other  dates  than 
this,  there  were  other  memories  ;  and  by  the  time 
George  Stransom  was  fifty-five  such  memories  had 
greatly  multiplied.  There  were  other  ghosts  in 
his  life  than  the  ghost  of  Mary  Antrim.  He  had 
perhaps  not  had  more  losses  than  most  men,  but 


THE    ALTAR    OF    THE    DEAD  187 

he  had  counted  his  losses  more;  he  had  not  seen 
death  more  closely,  but  he  had,  in  a  manner,  felt  it 
more  deeply.  He  had  formed  little  by  little  the 
habit  of  numbering  his  Dead  ;  it  had  come  to  him 
tolerably  early  in  life  that  there  was  something  one 
had  to  do  for  them.  They  were  there  in  their  sim 
plified,  intensified  essence,  their  conscious  absence 
and  expressive  patience,  as  personally  there  as  if 
they  had  only  been  stricken  dumb.  When  all 
sense  of  them  failed,  all  sound  of  them  ceased,  it 
was  as  if  their  purgatory  were  really  still  on  earth: 
they  asked  so  little  that  they  got,  poor  things,  even 
less,  and  died  again,  died  every  day,  of  the  hard 
usage  of  life.  They  had  no  organized  service,  no 
reserved  place,  no  honor,  no  shelter,  no  safety. 
Even  ungenerous  people  provided  for  the  living, 
but  even  those  who  were  called  most  generous  did 
nothing  for  the  others.  So,  on  George  Stransom's 
part,  there  grew  up  with  the  years  a  determination 
that  he  at  least  would  do  something — do  it,  that  is, 
for  his  own— and  perform  the  great  charity  without 
reproach.  Every  man  had  his  own,  and  every 
man  had,  to  meet  this  charity,  the  ample  resources 
of  the  soul. 

It  was  doubtless  the  voice  of  Mary  Antrim  that 
spoke  for  them  best ;  at  any  rate,  as  the  years 
went  on,  he  found  himself  in  regular  communion 
with  these  alternative  associates,  with  those  whom 
indeed  he  always  called  in  his  thoughts  the  Others. 
He  spared  them  the  moments,  he  organized  the 
charity.  How  it  grew  up  he  probably  never  could 


188  THE    ALTAR    OF   THE    DEAD 

have  told  you,  but  what  came  to  pass  was  that  an 
altar,  such  as  was,  after  all,  within  every  body's 
compass,  lighted  with  perpetual  candles  and  ded 
icated  to  these  secret  rites,  reared  itself  in  his 
j5pjriUmlj?paj3es^  He  had  wondered  of  old,  in  some 
embarrassment,  whether  he  had  a  religion  ;  being 
very  sure,  and  not  a  little  content,  that  he  had  not 
at  all  events  the  religion  some  of  the  people  he 
had  known  wanted  him  to  have.  Gradually  this 
question  was  straightened  out  for  him  ;  it  became 
clear  to  him  that  the  religion  instilled  by  his  ear 
liest  consciousness  had  been  simply  the  religion 
of  the  Dead.  It  suited  his  inclination,  it  satisfied 
his  spirit,  it  gave  employment  to  his  piety.  It 
answered  his  love  of  great  offices,  of  a  solemn  and 
splendid  ritual  ;  for  no  shrine  could  be  more  be 
decked  and  no  ceremonial  more  stately  than  those 
to  which  his  worship  was  attached.  He  had  no 
imagination  about  these  things  save  that  they 
were  accessible  to  every  one  who  should  ever  feel 
the  need  of  them.  The  poorest  could  build  such 
temples  of  the  spirit — could  make  them  blaze  with 
candles  and  smoke  with  incense,  make  them  flush 
with  pictures  and  flowers.  The  cost,  in  common 
phrase,  of  keeping  them  up  fell  entirely  on  the 
liberal  heart. 


II 

HE  had  this  year,  on  the  eve  of  his  anniversary, 
as  it  happened,  an  emotion  not  unconnected  with 
that  range  of  feeling.  Walking  home  at  the  close 
of  a  busy  day,  he  was  arrested  in  the  London 
street  by  the  particular  effect  of  a  shop-front  which 
lighted  the  dull  brown  air  with  its  mercenary  grin, 
and  before  which  several  persons  were  gathered. 
It  was  the  window  of  a  jeweller  whose  diamonds 
and  sapphires  seemed  to  laugh,  in  flashes  like  high 
notes  of  sound,  with  the  mere  joy  of  knowing  how 
much  more  they  were  ""worth  "  than  most  of  the 
dingy  pedestrians  staring  at  them  from  the  other 
side  of  the  pane.  Stransom  lingered  long  enough 
to  suspend,  in  a  vision,  a  string  of  pearls  about  the 
white  neck  of  Mary  Antrim,  and  then  was  kept  an 
instant  longer  by  the  sound  of  a  voice  he  knew. 
Next  him  was  a  mumbling  old  woman,  and  beyond 
the  old  woman  a  gentleman  with  a  lady  on  his 
arm.  It  was  from  him,  from  Paul  Creston,  the 
voice  had  proceeded  ;  he  was  talking  with  the 
lady  of  some  precious  object  in  the  window. 
Stransom  had  no  sooner  recognized  him  than  the 
old  woman  turned  awTay  ;  but  simultaneously  with 
this  increase  of  opportunity  he  became  aware  of 
a  strangeness  which  stayed  him  in  the  very  act  of 


190  THE    ALTAR    OF   THE    DEAD 

laying  his  band  on  his  friend's  arm.  It  lasted  only 
a  few  seconds,  but  a  few  seconds  were  long  enough 
for  the  flash  of  a  wild  question.  Was  not  Mrs. 
Creston  dead  ? — the  ambiguity  met  him  there 
in  the  short  drop  of  her  husband's  voice,  the  drop 
conjugal,  if  it  ever  was,  and  in  the  way  the  two 
figures  leaned  to  each  other.  Creston,  making  a 
step  to  look  at  something  else,  came  nearer,  glanced 
at  him,  started,  and  exclaimed — a  circumstance  the 
effect  of  which  was  at  first  only  to  leave  Stransom 
staring — staring  back  across  the  months  at  the  dif 
ferent  face,  the  wholly  other  face  the  poor  man 
had  shown  him  last,  the  blurred,  ravaged  mask 
bent  over  the  open  grave  by  which  they  had  stood 
together.  Creston  was  not  in  mourning  now  ;  he 
detached  his  arm  from  his  companion's  to  grasp 
the  hand  of  the  older  friend.  He  colored  as  well 
as  smiled  in  the  strong  light  of  the  shop  when 
Stransom  raised  a  tentative  hat  to  the  lady. 
Stransom  had  just  time  to  see  that  she  was  pretty 
before  he  found  himself  gaping  at  a  fact  more 
portentous.  "  My  dear  fellow,  let  me  make  you 
acquainted  with  my  wife." 

Creston  had  blushed  and  stammered  over  it,  but 
in  half  a  minute,  at  the  rate  we  live  in  polite 
society,  it  had  practically  become,  for  Stransom, 
the  mere  memory  of  a  shock.  They  stood  there 
and  laughed  and  talked  ;  Stransom  had  instantly 
whisked  the  shock  out  of  the  way,  to  keep  it  for 
private  consumption.  He  felt  himself  grimacing, 
he  heard  himself  exaggerating  the  usual,  but  he 


THE    ALTAR    OF    THE    DEAD  191 

was  conscious  that  he  had  turned  slightly  faint. 
That  new  woman,  that  hired  performer,  Mrs. 
Creston  ?  Mrs.  Creston  had  been  more  living  for 
him  than  any  woman  but  one.  This  lady  had  a 
face  that  shone  as  publicly  as  the  jeweller's 
window,  and  in  the  happy  candor  with  which  she 
wore  her  monstrous  character  there  was  an  effect 
of  gross  immodesty.  The  character  of  Hugh 
Creston's  wife,  thus  attributed  to  her,  was  'mon 
strous  for  reasons  which  Stransom  could  see  that 
his  friend  perfectly  knew  that  he  knew.  The 
happy  pair  had  just  arrived  from  America,  and 
Stransom  had  not  needed  to  be  told  this  to  divine 
the  nationality  of  the  lady.  Somehow  it  deepened 
the  foolish  air  that  her  husband's  confused  cor 
diality  was  unable  to  conceal.  Stransom  recalled 
that  he  had  heard  of  poor  Creston's  having,  while 
his  bereavement  was  still  fresh,  gone  to  the  United 
States  for  what  people  in  such  predicaments  call 
a  little  change.  He  had  found  the  little  change  ; 
indeed,  he  had  brought  the  little  change  back  ;  it 
was  the  little  change  that  stood  there  and  that,  do 
what  he  would,  he  couldn't,  while  he  showed  those 
high  front-teeth  of  his,  look  like  any  thing  but  a 
conscious  ass  about.  They  were  going  into  the 
shop,  Mrs.  Creston  said,  and  she  begged  Mr.  Stran 
som  to  come  with  them  and  help  to  decide.  He 
thanked  her,  opening  his  watch  and  pleading  an 
engagement  for  which  he  was  already  late,  and 
they  parted  while  she  shrieked  into  the  fog,  "  Mind 
now  you  come  to  see  me  right  away  !  "  Creston 


192  THE    ALTAR    OF    THE    DEAD 

had  had  the  delicacy  not  to  suggest  that,  and 
Stransom  hoped  it  hurt  him  somewhere  to  hear 
her  scream  it  to  all  the  echoes. 

He  felt  quite  determined,  as  he  walked  away, 
never  in  his  life  to  go  near  her.  She  was  perhaps 
a  human  being,  but  Creston  oughtn't  to  have 
shown  her  without  precautions,  oughtn't  indeed  to 
have  shown  her  at  all.  His  precautions  should 
have  been  those  of  a  forger  or  a  murderer,  and  the 
people  at  home  would  never  have  mentioned  extra 
dition.  This  was  a  wife  for  foreign  service  or 
purely  external  use  ;  a  decent  consideration  would 
have  spared  her  the  injury  of  comparisons.  Such 
were  the  first  reflections  of  George  Stransom's 
amazement  ;  but  as  he  sat  alone  that  night — these 
were  particular  hours  that  he  always  passed 
alone — the  harshness  dropped  from  them  and  left 
only  the  pity.  He  could  spend  an  evening  with 
Kate  Creston,  if  the  man  to  whom  she  had  given 
every  thing  couldn't.  He  had  known  her  twenty 
years,  and  she  was  the  only  woman  for  whom  he 
might  perhaps  have  been  unfaithful.  She  was  all 
cleverness  and  sympathy  and  charm  ;  her  house 
had  been  the  very  easiest  in  all  the  world,  and  her 
friendship  the  very  firmest.  Without  accidents 
he  had  loved  her,  without  accidents  every  one  had 
loved  her  ;  she  had  made  the  passions  about  her  as 
regular  as  the  moon  makes  the  tides.  She  had 
been  also  of  course  far  too  good  for  her  husband, 
but  he  never  suspected  it,  and  in  nothing  had  she 
been  more  admirable  than  in  the  exquisite  art  with 


or  THE 

THE    ALTAR    <&   THE^EAD      jf  193 

which  she  tried  to  keep^eV£Fy;-tjn1f5else  (keeping 
Creston  was  no  trouble)  from  finding  it  out.  Here 
was  a  man  to  whom  she  had  devoted  her  life  and 
for  whom  she  had  given  it  up — dying  to  bring  into 
the  world  a  child  of  his  bed  ;  and  she  had  had  only 
to  submit  to  her  fate  to  have,  ere  the  grass  was 
green  on  her  grave,  no  more  existence  for  him 
than  a  domestic  servant  he  had  replaced.  The 
frivolity,  the  indecency  of  it  made  Stransom's  eyes 
fill  ;  and  he  had  that  evening  a  rich,  almost  happy 
sense  that  he  alone,  in  a  world  without  delicacy, 
had  a  right  to  hold  up  his  head.  While  he 
smoked,  after  dinner,  he  had  a  book  in  his  lap, 
but  he  had  no  eyes  for  his  page  ;  his  eyes,  in  the 
swarming  void  of  things,  seemed  to  have  caught 
Kate  Creston's,  and  it  was  into  their  sad  silences 
he  looked.  It  was  to  him  her  sentient  spirit  had 
turned,  knowing  that  it  was  of  her  he  would  think. 
He  thought,  for  a  long  time,  of  how  the  closed 
eyes  of  dead  women  could  still  live — how  they 
could  open  again,  in  a  quiet  lamplit  room,  long 
after  they  had  looked  their  last.  They  had  looks 
that  remained,  as  great  poets  had  quoted  lines. 

The  newspaper  lay  by  his  chair — the  thing  that 
came  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  servants  thought 
one  wanted  ;  without  sense  for  what  was  in  it,  he 
had  mechanically  unfolded  and  then  dropped  it. 
Before  he  went  to  bed  he  took  it  up,  and  this  time, 
at  the  top  of  a  paragraph,  he  was  caught  by  five 
words  that  made  him  start.  He  stood  staring, 
before  the  fire,  at  the  "  Death  of  Sir  Acton  Hague, 
13 


194  THE    ALTAR    OF   THE    DEAD 

K.  0.  B.,"  the  man  who,  ten  years  earlier,  liad  been 
the  nearest  of  his  friends,  and  whose  deposition 
from  this  eminence  had  practically  left  it  without 
an  occupant.  He  had  seen  him  after  that  catas 
trophe,  but  he  had  not  seen  him  for  years.  Stand 
ing  there  before  the  fire,  he  turned  cold  as  he  read 
what  had  befallen  him.  Promoted  a  short  time 
previous  to  the  governorship  of  the  Westward 
Islands,  Acton  Hague  had  died,  in  the  bleak  honor 
of  this  exile,  of  an  illness  consequent  on  the  bite  of 
a  poisonous  snake.  His  career  was  compressed  by 
the  newspaper  into  a  dozen  lines,  the  perusal  of 
which  excited  on  George  Stransom's  part  no  warmer 
feeling  than  one  of  relief  at  the  absence  of  any 
mention  of  their  quarrel,  an  incident  accidentally 
tainted  at  the  time,  thanks  to  their  joint  immersion 
in  large  affairs,  with  a  horrible  publicity.  Public, 
indeed,  was  the  wrong  Stransom  had,  to  his  own 
sense,  suffered,  the  insult  he  had  blankly  taken 
from  the  only  man  with  whom  he  had  ever  been 
intimate  ;  the  friend,  almost  adored,  of  his  univer 
sity  years,  the  subject,  later,  of  his  passionate 
loyalty  ;  so  public  that  he  had  never  spoken  of  it 
to  a  human  creature,  so  public  that  he  had  com 
pletely  overlooked  it.  It  had  made  the  difference 
for  him  that  friendship  too  was  all  over,  but  it  had 
only  made  just  that  one.  The  shock  of  interests 
had  been  private,  intensely  so  ;  but  the  action 
taken  by  Hague  had  been  in  the  face  of  men. 
To-day  it  all  seemed  to  have  occurred  merely  to 
the  end  that  George  Stransom  should  think  of  him 


THE  ALTAR  OF  THE  DEAD          195 

as  "Hague,"  and  measure  exactly  how  much  he 
himself  could  feel  like  a  stone.  He  went  cold, 
suddenly,  and  horribly  cold,  to  bed. 


Ill 

THE  next  day,  in  the  afternoon,  in  the  great 
gray  suburb,  he  felt  that  his  long  walk  had  tired 
him.  In  the  dreadful  cemetery  alone  he  had  been 
on  his  feet  an  hour.  Instinctively,  coming  back, 
they  had  taken  him  a  devious  course,  and  it  was 
a  desert  in  which  no  circling  cabman  hovered 
over  possible  prey.  He  paused  on  a  corner  and 
measured  the  dreariness  ;  then  he  became  aware 
in  the  gathered  dusk  that  he  was  in  one  of  those 
tracts  of  London  which  are  less  gloomy  by  night 
than  by  day,  because,  in  the  former  case,  of  the 
civil  gift  of  light.  By  day  there  was  nothing,  but 
by  night  there  were  lamps,  and  George  Stransom 
was  in  a  mood  which  made  lamps  good  in  them 
selves.  It  wasn't  that  they  could  show  him  any 
thing  ;  it  was  only  that  they  could  burn  clear. 
To  his  surprise,  however,  after  a  while,  they  did 
show  him  something  :  the  arch  of  a  high  doorway 
approached  by  a  low  terr'ace  of  steps,  in  the  depth 
of  which — it  formed  a  dim  vestible — the  raising  of 
a  curtain,  at  the  moment  he  passed,  gave  him  a 
glimpse  of  an  avenue  of  gloom  with  a  glow  of  tapers 
at  the  end.  He  stopped  and  looked  up,  making 


196  THE    ALTAR    OF    THE    DEAD 

out  that  the  place  was  a  church.  The  thought 
quickly  came  to  him  that,  since  he  was  tired,  he 
might  rest  there  ;  so  that,  after  a  moment,  he  had 
in  turn  pushed  up  the  leathern  curtain  and  gone  in. 
It  was  a  temple  of  the  old  persuasion,  and  there 
had  evidently  been  a  function — perhaps  a  service 
for  the  dead  ;  the  high  altar  was  still  a  blaze  of 
candles.  This  was  an  exhibition  he  always  liked, 
and  he  dropped  into  a  seat  with  relief.  More  than 
it  had  ever  yet  come  home  to  him  it  struck  him  as 
good  that  there  should  be  churches. 

This  one  was  almost  empty  and  the  other  altars 
were  dim  ;  a  verger  shuffled  about,  an  old  woman 
coughed,  but  it  seemed  to  Stransom  there  was 
hospitality  in  the  thick,  sweet  air.  Was  it  only 
the  savor  of  the  incense,  or  was  it  something 
larger  and  more  guaranteed?  He  had  at  any  rate 
quitted  the  great  gray  suburb  and  come  nearer  to 
the  warm  centre.  He  presently  ceased  to  feel  an 
intruder — he  gained  at  last  even  a  sense  of  com 
munity  with  the  only  worshipper  in  his  neighbor 
hood,  the  sombre  presence  of  a  woman,  in  mourn 
ing  unrelieved,  whose  back  was  all  he  could  see  of 
her,  and  who  had  sunk  deep  into  prayer  at  no  great 
distance  from  him.  He  wished  he  could  sink,  like 
her,  to  the  very  bottom,  be  as  motionless,  as  rapt 
in  prostration.  After  a  few  moments  he  shifted 
his  seat ;  it  was  almost  indelicate  to  be  so  aware 
of  her.  But  Stransom  subsequently  lost  himself 
altogether  ;  he  floated  away  on  the  sea  of  light. 
If  occasions  like  this  had  been  more  frequent  in 


THE  ALTAR  OF  THE  DEAD          197 

his  life,  be  would  have  been  more  frequently 
conscious  of  the  great  original  type,  set  up  in  a 
myriad  temples,  of  the  unapproachable  shrine  he 
had  erected  in  his  mind.  That  shrine  had  begun 
as  a  reflection  of  ecclesiastical  pomps,  but  the  echo 
had  ended  by  growing  more  distinct  than  the 
sound.  The  sound  now  rang  out,  the  type  blazed 
at  him  with  all  its  fires  and  with  a  mystery  of 
radiance  in  which  endless  meanings  could  glow. 
The  thing  became,  as  he  sat  there,  his  appropriate 
altar,  and  each  starry  candle  an  appropriate  vow. 
He  numbered  them,  he  named  them,  he  grouped 
them — it  was  the  silent  roll-call  of  his  Dead. 
They  made  together  a  brightness  vast  and  intense — 
a  brightness  in  which  the  mere  chapel  of  his 
thoughts  grew  so  dim  that,  as  it  faded  away,  he 
asked  himself  if  he  shouldn't  find  his  real  comfort 
in  some  material  act,  some  outward  worship. 

This  idea  took  possession  of  him  while,  at  a 
distance,  the  black-robed  lady  continued  prostrate  ; 
he  was  quietly  thrilled  with  his  conception,  which 
at  last  brought  him  to  his  feet  in  his  sudden  ex 
citement  of  a  plan.  He  wandered  softly  about  the 
church,  pausing  in  the  different  chapels,  which 
were  all,  save  one,  applied  to  a  special  devotion. 
It  was  in  this  one,  dark  and  ungarnished,  he  stood 
longest — the  length  of  time  it  took  him  fully  to 
grasp  the  conception  of  gilding  it  with  his  bounty. 
He  should  snatch  it  from  no  other  rites  and  as 
sociate  it  with  nothing  profane;  he  would  simply 
take  it  as  it  should  be  given  up  to  him  and  make 


198  THE    ALTAR    OF    THE    DEAD 

it  a  masterpiece  of  splendor  and  a  mountain  of  fire. 
Tended  sacredly  all  the  year,  with  the  sanctifying 
church  around  it,  it  would  always  be  ready  for  his 
offices.  There  would  be  difficulties,  but  from  the 
first  they  presented  themselves  only  as  difficulties 
surmounted.  Even  for  a  person  so  little  affiliated 
the  thing  would  be  a  matter  of  arrangement.  He 
saw  it  all  in  advance,  and  how  bright  in  especial 
the  place  would  become  to  him  in  the  intermis 
sion  of  toil  and  the  dusk  of  afternoons;  how  rich 
in  assurance  at  all  times,  but  especially  in  the 
indifferent  world.  Before  withdrawing  he  drew 
nearer  again  to  the  spot  where  he  had  first  sat 
down,  and  in  the  movement  he  met  the  lady 
whom  he  had  seen  praying  and  who  was  now  on 
her  way  to  the  door.  She  passed  him  quickly, 
and  he  had  only  a  glimpse  of  her  pale  face  and 
her  unconscious,  almost  sightless  eyes.  For  that 
instant  she  looked  faded  and  handsome. 

This  was  the  origin  of  the  rites  more  public, 
yet  certainly  esoteric,  that  he  at  last  found  himself 
able  to  establish.  It  took  a  long  time,  it  took  a 
year  ;  and  both  the  process  and  the  result  would 
have  been — for  any  who  knew — a  vivid  picture 
of  his  good  faith.  No  one  did  know,  in  fact — 
no  one  but  the  bland  ecclesiastic  whose  acquaint 
ance  he  had  promptly  sought,  whose  objections 
he  had  softly  overridden,  whose  curiosity  and 
sympathy  he  had  artfully  charmed,  whose  assent  to 
his  eccentric  munificence  he  had  eventually  won, 
and  who  had  asked  for  concessions  in  exchange 


THE    ALTAR    OF    THE    DEAD  199 

for  indulgences.  Stransom  had  of  course  at  an 
early  stage  of  his  enquiry  been  referred  to  the 
bishop,  and  the  bishop  had  been  delightfully 
human  ;  the  bishop  had  been  almost  amused. 
Success  was  within  sight,  at  any  rate,  from  the 
moment  the  attitude  of  those  whom  it  concerned 
became  liberal  in  response  to  liberality.  The  altar 
and  the  small  chapel  that  enclosed  it,  consecrated  to 
an  ostensible  and  customary  worship,  were  to  be 
splendidly  maintained;  all  that  Stranson  reserved 
to  himself  was  the  number  of  his  lights  and  the 
free  enjoyment  of  his  intention.  When  the  in 
tention  had  taken  complete  eifect,  the  enjoyment 
became  even  greater  than  he  had  ventured  to 
hope.  He  liked  to  think  of  this  effect  when  he 
was  far  from  it — he  liked  to  convince  himself  of 
it  yet  again  when  he  was  near.  He  was  not  often, 
indeed,  so  near  as  that -a  visit  to  it  had  not  per 
force  something  of  the  patience  of  a  pilgrimage  ; 
but  the  time  he  gave  to  his  devotion  came  to  seem 
to  him  more  a  contribution  to  his  other  interests 
than  a  betrayal  of  them.  Even  a  loaded  life 
might  be  easier  when  one  had  added  a  new  neces 
sity  to  it. 

Plow  much  easier  was  probably  never  guessed 
by  those  who  simply  knew  that  there  were  hours 
when  he  disappeared,  and  for  many  of  whom  there 
was  a  vulgar  reading  of  what  they  used  to  call  his 
plunges.  These  plunges  were  into  depths  quieter 
than  the  deep  sea-caves  ;  and  the  habit,  at  the  end 
of  a  year  or  two,  had  become  the  one  it  would 


200  THE    ALTAR    OF   THE    DEAD 

have  cost  him  most  to  relinquish.  Now  they  had 
really,  his  Dead,  something  that  was  indefeasibly 
theirs  ;  and  he  liked  to  think  that  they  might,  in 
cases,  be  the  Dead  of  others,  as  well  as  that  the 
Dead  of  others  might  be  invoked  there  under  the 
protection  of  what  he  had  done.  Whoever  bent 
a  knee  on  the  carpet  he  had  laid  down  appeared 
to  him  to  act  in  the  spirit  of  his  intention.  Each 
of  his  lights  had  a  name  for  him,  and  from  time 
to  time  a  new  light  was  kindled.  This  was  what 
he  had  fundamentally  agreed  for,  that  there 
should  always  be  room  for  them  all.  What  those 
who  passed  or  lingered  saw  was  simply  the  most 
resplendent  of  the  altars,  called  suddenly  into 
vivid  usefulness,  with  a  quiet  elderly  man,  for 
whom  it  evidently  had  a  fascination,  often  seated 
there  in  a  maze  or  a  doze  ;  but  half  the  satisfac 
tion  of  the  spot,  for  this  mysterious  and  fitful  wor 
shipper,  was  that  he  found  the  years  of  his  life 
there,  and  the  ties,  the  affections,  the  struggles, 
the  submissions,  the  conquests,  if  there  had  been 
such  a  record  of  that  adventurous  journey  in 
which  the  beginnings  and  the  endings  of  human 
relations  are  the  lettered  mile-stones.  He  had  in 
general  little  taste  for  the  past  as  a  past  of  his 
own  history;  at  other  times  and  in  other  places, 
it  mostly  seemed  to  him  pitiful  to  consider  and 
impossible  to  repair;  but  on  these  occasions  he  ac 
cepted  it  with  something  of  that  positive  gladness 
with  which  one  adjusts  one's  self  to  an  ache  that 
is  beginning  to  succumb  to  treatment.  To  the 


THE  ALTAR  OF  THE  DEAD          201 

treatment  of  time  the  malady  of  life  begins  at  a 
given  moment  to  succumb  ;  and  these  were  doubt 
less  the  hours  at  which  that  truth  most  came 
home  to  him.  The  day  was  written  for  him 
there  on  which  he  had  first  become  acquainted 
with  death,  and  the  successive  phases  of  the  ac 
quaintance  were  each  marked  with  a  flame. 

The  flames  were  gathering  thick  at  present,  for 
Stransom  had  entered  that  dark  defile  of  our 
earthly  descent  in  which  some  one  dies  every  day. 
It  was  only  yesterday  that  Kate  Creston  had 
flashed  out  her  white  fire;  yet  already  there  were 
younger  stars  ablaze  on  the  tips  of  the  tapers. 
Various  persons  in  whom  his  interest  had  not  been 
intense  drew  closer  to  him  by  entering  this  com 
pany.  He  went  over  it,  head  by  head,  till  he  felt 
like  the  shepherd  of  a  huddled  flock,  with  all  a 
shepherd's  vision  of  differences  imperceptible.  He 
knew  his  candles  apart,  up  to  the  color  of  the 
flame,  and  would  still  have  known  them  had  their 
positions  all  been  changed.  To  other  imagina 
tions  they  might  stand  for  other  things — that 
they  should  stand  for  something  to  be  hushed 
before  was  all  he  desired  ;  but  he  was  intensely 
conscious  of  the  personal  note  of  each  and  of  the 
distinguishable  way  it  contributed  to  the  concert. 
There  were  hours  at  which  he  almost  caught  him 
self  wishing  that  certain  of  his  friends  would  now 
die,  that  he  might  establish  with  them  in  this 
manner  a  connection  more  charming  than,  as  it 
happened,  it  was  possible  to  enjoy  with  them  in  | 


202  THE    ALTAR    OF    THE    DEAD 

life.  In  regard  to  those  from  whom  one  was  sep 
arated  by  the  long  curves  of  the  globe  such  a  con 
nection  could  only  be  an  improvement ;  it  brought 
them  instantly  within  reach.  Of  course  there  were 
gaps  in  the  constellation,  for  S transom  knew  he 
could  only  pretend  to  act  for  his  own,  and  it  was 
not  every  figure  passing  before  his  eyes  into  the 
great  obscure  that  was  entitled  to  a  memorial. 
There  was  a  strange  sanctification  in  death,  but 
some  characters  were  more  sanctified  by  being  for 
gotten  than  by  being  remembered.  The  greatest 
blank  in  the  shining  page  was  the  memory  of 
Acton  Hague,  of  which  he  inveterately  tried  to 
rid  himself.  For  Acton  Hague  no  flame  could 
ever  rise  on  any  altar  of  his. 


IV 

EVERY  year,  the  day  he  walked  back  from  the 
great  graveyard,  he  went  to  church  as  he  had 
done  the  day  his  idea  was  born.  It  was  on  this 
occasion,  as  it  happened,  after  a  year  had  passed, 
that  he  began  to  observe  his  altar  to  be  haunted 
by  a  worshipper  at  least  as  frequent  as  himself. 
Others  of  the  faithful,  and  in  the  rest  of  the 
church,  came  and  went,  appealing  sometimes, 
when  they  disappeared,  to  a  vague  or  to  a  partic 
ular  recognition  ;  but  this  unfailing  presence  was 
always  to  be  observed  when  lie  arrived  and  still 


THE  ALTAR  OF  THE  DEAD          203 

in  possession  when  lie  departed.  He  was  sur 
prised,  the  first  time,  at  the  promptitude  with 
which  it  assumed  an  identity  for  him — the  identity 
of  the  lady  whom,  two  years  before,  on  his  anni 
versary,  he  had  seen  so  intensely  bowed,  and  of 
whose  tragic  face  he  had  had  so  flitting  a  vision. 
Given  the  time  that  had  elapsed,  his  recollection 
of  her  was  fresh  enough  to  make  him  wonder.  Of 
himself  she  had,  of  course,  no  impression,  or, 
rather,  she  had  none  at  first.  The  time  came 
when  her  manner  of  transacting  her  business  sug 
gested  to  him  that  she  had  gradually  guessed  his 
call  to  be  of  the  same  order.  She  used  his  altar 
for  her  own  purpose  ;  he  could  only  hope  that, 
sad  and  solitary  as  she  always  struck  him,  she 
used  it  for  her  own  Dead.  There  were  interrup 
tions,  infidelities,  all  on  his  part,  calls  to  other  as 
sociations  and  duties  ;  but  as  the  months  went  on 
he  found  her  whenever  he  returned,  and  he  ended 
by  taking  pleasure  in  the  thought  that  he  had 
given  her  almost  the  contentment  he  had  given 
himself.  They  worshipped  side  by  side  so  often 
that  there  were  moments  when  he  wished  he 
might  be  sure,  so  straight  did  their  prospect 
stretch  away  of  growing  old  together  in  their 
rites.  She  was  younger  than  he,  but  she  looked 
as  if  her  Dead  were  at  least  as  numerous  as  his 
candles.  She  had  no  color,  no  sound,  no  fault, 
and  another  of  the  things  about  which  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  was  that  she  had  no  .fortune. 
She  was  always  black-robed,  as  if  she  had  had  a 


204  THE    ALTAR    OF   THE    DEAD 

succession  of  sorrows.  People  were  not  poor, 
after  all,  whom  so  many  losses  could  overtake  ; 
they  were  positively  rich  when  they  had  so  much 
to  give  up.  But  the  air  of  this  devoted  and 
indifferent  woman,  who  always  made,  in  any  atti 
tude,  a  beautiful,  accidental  line,  conveyed  some 
how  to  Stransom  that  she  had  known  more  kinds 
of  trouble  than  one. 

He  had  a  great  love  of  music  and  little  time  for 
the  joy  of  it ;  but  occasionally,  when  workaday 
noises  were  muffled  by  Saturday  afternoons,  it 
used  to  come  back  to  him  that  there  were  glories. 
There  were,  moreover,  friends  who  reminded  him 
of  this,  and  side  by  side  with  whom  he  found  him 
self  sitting  out  concerts.  On  one  of  these  winter 
evenings,  in  St.  James'  Hall,  he  became  aware, 
after  he  had  seated  himself,  that  the  lady  he  had 
so  often  seen  at  church  was  in  the  place  next  him 
and  was  evidently  alone,  as  he  also  this  time  hap 
pened  to  be.  She  was  at  first  too  absorbed  in  the 
consideration  of  the  programme  to  heed  him,  but 
when  she  at  last  glanced  at  him  he  took  advantage 
of  the  movement  to  speak  to  her,  greeting  her 
with  the  remark  that  he  felt  as  if  he  already  knew 
her.  She  smiled  as  she  said  :  "  Oh,  yes  !  I  recog 
nize  you."  Yet  in  spite  of  this  admission  of  their 
long  acquaintance  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever 
seen  her  smile.  The  effect  of  it  was  suddenly  to 
contribute  more  to  that  acquaintance  than  all  the 
previous  meetings  had  done.  He  hadn't  "taken 
in,"  he  said  to  himself,  that  she  was  so  pretty. 


THE  ALTAR  OF  THE  DEAD          205 

Later  that  evening  (it  was  while  he  rolled  along 
in  a  hansom  on  his  way  to  dine  out)  he  added 
that  he  hadn't  taken  in  that  she  was  so  interest 
ing.  The  next  morning,  in  the  midst  of  his  work, 
he  quite  suddenly  and  irrelevantly  reflected  that 
his  impression  of  her,  beginning  so  far  back,  was 
like  a  winding  river  that  had  at  last  reached  the 
sea. 

His  work  was  indeed  blurred  a  little,  all  that 
day,  by  the  sense  of  what  had  now  passed  between 
them.  It  wasn't  much,  but  it  had  just  made  the 
difference.  They  had  listened  together  to  Beet 
hoven  and  Schumann  ;  they  had  talked  in  the 
pauses  and  at  the  end,  when  at  the  door,  to  which 
they  moved  together,  he  had  asked  her  if  he  could 
help  her  in  the  matter  of  getting  away.  She  had 
thanked  him  and  put  up  her  umbrella,  slipping 
into  the  crowd  without  an  allusion  to  their  meet 
ing  yet  again,  and  leaving  him  to  remember  at 
leisure  that  not  a  word  had  been  exchanged  about 
the  place  in  which  they  frequently  met.  This  cir 
cumstance  seemed  to  him  at  one  moment  natural 
enough  and  at  another  perverse.  She  mightn't  in 
the  least  have  recognized  his  warrant  for  speak 
ing  to  her  ;  and  yet,  if  she  hadn't,  he  would  have 
judged  her  an  underbred  woman.  It  was  odd 
that,  when  nothing  had  really  ever  brought  them 
together,  he  should  have  been  able  successfully  to 
assume  that  they  were  in  a  manner  old  friends — 
that  this  negative  quantity  was  somehow  more 
than  they  could  express.  His  success,  it  was  true, 


206          THE  ALTAR  OF  THE  DEAD 

had  been  qualified  by  her  quick  escape,  so  that 
there  grew  up  in  him  an  absurd  desire  to  put  it  to 
some  better  test.  Save  in  so  far  as  some  other 
improbable  accident  might  assist  him,  such  a  test 
could  be  only  to  meet  her  afresh  at  church.  Left 
to  himself  he  would  have  gone  to  church  the  very 
next  afternoon,  just  for  the  curiosity  of  seeing  if 
he  should  find  her  there.  But  he  was  not  left  to 
himself,  a  fact  he  discovered  quite  at  the  last,  after 
lie  had  virtually  made  up  his  mind  to  go.  The 
influence  that  kept  him  away  really  revealed  to 
him  how  little  to  himself  his  Dead  ever  left  him. 
They  reminded  him  that  he  went  only  for  them — 
for  nothing  else  in  the  world. 

The  force  of  this  reminder  kept  him  away  ten 
days  ;  he  hated  to  connect  the  place  with  any 
thing  but  his  offices,  or  to  give  a  glimpse  of  the 
curiosity  that  had  been  on  the  point  of  moving 
him.  It  was  absurd  to  weave  a  tangle  about  a 
matter  so  simple  as  a  custom  of  devotion  that 
might  so  easily  have  been  daily  or  hourly  ;  yet  the 
tangle  got  itself  woven.  He  was  sorry,  he  was 
disappointed  ;  it  was  as  if  a  long,  happy  spell  had 
been  broken  and  he  had  lost  a  familiar  security. 
At  the  last,  however,  he  asked  himself  if  he  was 
to  stay  away  forever  from  the  fear  of  this  muddle 
about  motives.  After  an  interval,  neither  longer 
nor  shorter  than  usual,  he  re-entered  the  church 
with  a  clear  conviction  that  he  should  scarcely 
heed  the  presence  or  the  absence  of  the  lady  of 
the  concert.  This  indifference  didn't  prevent  his 


THE    ALTAR    OF   THE    DEAD  207 

instantly  perceiving  that  for  the  only  time  since 
be  had  first  seen  her  she  was  not  on  the  spot.  He 
had  now  no  scruple  about  giving  her  time  to 
arrive,  but  she  didn't  arrive,  and  when  he  went 
away  still  missing  her  he  was  quite  profanely  and 
consentingly  sorry.  If  her  absence  made  the 
tangle  more  intricate,  that  was  only  her  fault. 
By  the  end  of  another  year  it  was  very  intricate 
indeed  ;  but  by  that  time  he  didn't  in  the  least 
care,  and  it  was  only  his  cultivated  consciousness 
that  had  given  him  scruples.  Three  times  in 
three  months  he  had  gone  to  church  without  find 
ing  her,  and  he  felt  that  he  had  not  needed  these 
occasions  to  show  him  that  his  suspense  had  quite 
dropped.  Yet  it  was,  incongruously,  not  indiffer 
ence,  but  a  refinement  of  delicacy  that  had  kept 
him  from  asking  the  sacristan,  who  would  of 
course  immediately  have  recognized  his  descrip 
tion  of  her,  whether  she  had  been  seen  at  other 
hours.  His  delicacy  had  kept  him  from  asking 
any  question  about  her  at  any  time,  and  it  was 
exactly  the  same  virtue  that  had  left  him  so  free 
to  be  decently  civil  to  her  at  the  concert. 

This  happy  advantage  now  served  him  anew, 
enabling  him  when  she  finally  met  his  eyes — it 
was  after  a  fourth  trial — to  determine  without  hesi 
tation  to  wait  till  she  should  retire.  He  joined 
her  in  the  street  as  soon  as  she  had  done  so,  and 
asked  her  if  he  might  accompany  her  a  certain 
distance.  With  her  placid  permission  he  went  as 
far  as  a  house  in  the  neighborhood  at  which  she 


208  THE    ALTAR    OF   THE    DEAD 

had  business  ;  she  let  him  know  it  was  not  where 
she  lived.  She  lived,  as  she  said,  in  a  mere  slum, 
with  an  old  aunt,  a  person  in  connection  with 
whom  she  spoke  of  the  engrossment  of  hurndrnm 
duties  and  regular  occupations.  She  was  not,  the 
mourning  niece,  in  her  first  youth,  and  her  van 
ished  freshness  had  left  something  behind  which, 
for  Stransom,  represented  the  proof  that  it  had 
been  tragically  sacrificed.  Whatever  she  gave 
him  the  assurance  of  she  gave  it  without  refer 
ences.  She  might  in  fact  have  been  a  divorced 
duchess,  and  she  might  have  been  an  old  maid 
who  taught  the  harp. 


THEY  fell  at  last  into  the  way  of  walking 
together  almost  every  time  they  met,  though,  for 
a  long  time,  they  never  met  anywhere  save  at 
church.  He  couldn't  ask  her  to  come  and  see 
him,  and,  as  if  she  had  not  a  proper  place  to  re 
ceive  him,  she  never  invited  him.  As  much  as 
himself  she  knew  the  world  of  London,  but  from 
an  undiscussed  instinct  of  privacy  they  haunted 
the  region  not  mapped  on  the  social  chart.  On 
the  return  she  always  made  him  leave  her  at  the 
same  corner.  She  looked  with  him,  as  a  pretext 
for  a  pause,  at  the  depressed  things  in  suburban 
shopfronts  ;  and  there  was  never  a  word  he  had 


THE  ALTAR  OF  THE  DEAD          209 

said  to  her  that  she  had  not  beautifully  under 
stood.  For  long  ages  he  never  knew  her  name, 
any  more  than  she  had  ever  pronounced  his  own  ; 
but  it  was  not  their  names  that  mattered,  it  was 
only  their  perfect  practice  and  their  common 
need. 

These  things  made  their  whole  relation  so  im 
personal  that  they  had  not  the  rules  or  reasons 
people  found  in  ordinary  friendships.  They 
didn't  care  for  the  things  it  was  supposed  neces 
sary  to  care  for  in  the  intercourse  of  the  world. 
They  ended  one  day  (they  never  knew  which  of 
them  expressed  it  first)  by  throwing  out  the  idea 
that  they  didn't  care  for  each  other.  Over  this 
idea  they  grew  quite  intimate  ;  they  rallied  to  it 
in  a  way  that  marked  a  fresh  start  in  their  con 
fidence.  If  to  feel  deeply  together  about  certain 
things  wholly  distinct  from  themselves  didn't  con 
stitute  a  safety,  where  was  safety  to  be  looked 
for?  Not  lightly  nor  often,  not  without  occasion 
nor  without  emotion,  any  more  than  in  any  other 
reference  by  serious  people  to  a  mystery  of  their 
faith  ;  but  when  something  had  happened  to 
warm,  as  it  were,  the  air  for  it,  they  came  as  near 
as  they  could  come  to  calling  their  Dead  by  name. 
They  felt  it  was  coming  very  near  to  utter  their 
thought  at  all.  The  word  "they"  expressed 
enough  ;  it  limited  the  mention,  it  had  a  dignity 
of  its  own,  and  if,  in  their  talk,  you  had  heard  our 
friends  use  it,  you  might  have  taken  them  for  a 
pair  of  pagans  of  old  alluding  decently  to  the 
14 


210  THE    ALTAR    OF   THE    DEAD 

domesticated  gods.  They  never  knew — at  least 
Stransom  never  knew — how  they  had  learned  to  be 
sure  about  each  other.  If  it  had  been  with  each  a 
question  of  what  the  other  was  there  for,  the  certi 
tude  had  come  in  some  fine  way  of  its  own.  Any 
faith,  after  all,  has  the  instinct  of  propagation,  and 
it  was  as  natural  as  it  was  beautiful  that  they 
should  have  taken  pleasure  on  the  spot  in  the 
imagination  of  a  following.  If  the  following  was 
for  each  but  a  following  of  one,  it  had  proved  in 
the  event  to  be  sufficient.  Her  debt,  however,  of 
course,  was  much  greater  than  his,  because  while 
she  had  only  given  him  a  worshipper  he  had  given 
her  a  magnificent  temple.  Once  she  said  she 
pitied  him  for  the  length  of  his  list  (she  had 
counted  his  candles  almost  as  often  as  himself) 
and  this  made  him  wonder  what  could  have  been 
the  length  of  hers.  He  had  wondered  before  at 
the  coincidence  of  their  losses,  especially  as  from 
time  to  time  a  new  candle  was  set  up.  On  some 
occasion  some  accident  led  him  to  express  this 
curiosity,  and  she  answered  as  if  she  was  surprised 
that  he  hadn't  already  understood.  "  Oh,  for  me, 
you  know,  the  more  there  are  the  better — there 
could  never  be  too  many.  I  should  like  hundreds 
and  hundreds — I  should  like  thousands  ;  I  should 
like  a  perfect  mountain  of  light." 

Then,  of  course,  in  a  flash,  he  understood. 
"Your  Dead  are  only  One?" 

She  hesitated  as  she  had  never  hesitated.  "Only 
One,"  she  answered,  coloring  as  if  now  he  knew 


THE  ALTAR  OF  THE  DEAD         211 

her  innermost  secret.  It  really  made  him  feel  that 
he  knew  less  than  before,  so  difficult  was  it  for 
him  to  reconstitute  a  life  in  which  a  single  expe 
rience  had  reduced  all  others  to  nought.  His  own 
life,  round  its  central  hollow,  had  been  packed 
close  enough.  After  this  she  appeared  to  have 
regretted  her  confession,  though  at  the  moment 
she  spoke  there  had  been  pride  in  her  very  em 
barrassment.  She  declared  to  him  that  his  own 
was  the  larger,  the  dearer  possession — the  portion 
one  would  have  chosen  if  one  had  been  able  to 
choose  ;  she  assured  him  she  could  perfectly 
imagine  some  of  the  echoes  with  which  his  silences 
were  peopled.  He  knew  she  couldn't  ;  one's  re 
lation  to  what  one  had  loved  and  hated  had  been 
a  relation  too  distinct  from  the  relations  of  others. 
But  this  didn't  affect  the  fact  that  they  were 
growing  old  together  in  their  piety.  She  was  a 
feature  of  that  piety,  but  even  at  the  ripe  stage  of 
acquaintance  in  which  they  occasionally  arranged 
to  meet  at  a  concert,  or  to  go  together  to  an  exhi 
bition,  she  was  not  a  feature  of  any  thing  else. 
The  most  that  happened  was  that  his  worship 
became  paramount.  Friend  by  friend  dropped 
away  till  at  last  there  were  more  emblems  on  his 
altar  than  houses  left  him  to  enter.  She  was 
more  than  any  other  the  friend  who  remained, 
but  she  was  unknown  to  all  the  rest.  Once  when 
she  had  discovered,  as  they  called  it,  a  new  star, 
she  used  the  expression  that  the  chapel  at  last  was 
full. 


212  THE    ALTAK    OF    THE    DEAD 

"Oh,  no!"  Stransom  replied,  "there  is  a  great 
thing  wanting  for  that  !  The  chapel  will  never 
be  full  till  a  candle  is  set  up  before  which  all  the 
others  will  pale.  It  will  be  the  tallest  candle 
of  all." 

Her  mild  wonder  rested  on  him.  "  What  can 
dle  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean,  dear  lady,  my  own." 

He  had  learned  after  a  long  time  that  she 
earned  money  by  her  pen,  writing  under  a  desig 
nation  that  she  never  told  him  in  magazines  that 
he  never  saw.  She  knew  too  well  what  he  couldn't 
read  and  what  she  couldn't  write,  and  she  taught 
him  to  cultivate  indifference  with  a  success  that 
did  much  for  their  good  relations.  Her  invisible 
industry  was  a  convenience  to  him  ;  it  helped  his 
contented  thought  of  her,  the  thought  that  rested 
in  the  dignity  of  her  proud,  obscure  life,  her  little 
remunerated  art  and  her  little  impenetrable  home. 
Lost,  with  her  obscure  relative,  in  her  dim  su 
burban  world,  she  came  to  the  surface  for  him  in 
distant  places.  She  was  really  the  priestess  of 
his  altar,  and  whenever  he  quitted  England  he 
committed  it  to  her  keeping.  She  proved  to  him 
afresh  that  women  have  more  of  the  spirit  of 
religion  than  men  ;  he  felt  his  fidelity  pale  and 
faint  in  comparison  with  hers.  He  often  said  to 
her  that  since  he  had  so  little  time  to  live  he  re 
joiced  in  her  having  so  much  ;  so  glad  was  he  to 
think  she  would  guard  the  temple  when  he  should 
have  ceased.  He  had  a  great  plan  for  that,  which, 


THE  ALTAR  OF  THE  DEAD          213 

of  course,  he  told  her,  too,  a  bequest  of  money  to 
keep  it  up  in  undiminished  state.  Of  the  admin 
istration  of  this  fund  he  would  appoint  her  super 
intendent,  and,  if  the  spirit  should  move  her,  she 
might  kindle  a  taper  even  for  him. 

"  And  who  will  kindle  one  even  for  me  ? "  she 
gravely  enquired. 


VI 

SHE  was  always  in  mourning,  yet  the  day  he 
came  back  from  the  longest  absence  he  had  yet 
made  her  appearance  immediately  told  him  she 
had  lately  had  a  bereavement.  They  met  on  this 
occasion  as  she  was  leaving  the  church,  so  that, 
postponing  his  own  entrance,  he  instantly  offered 
to  turn  round  and  walk  away  with  her.  She  con 
sidered,  then  she  said  :  "  Go  in  now,  but  come  and 
see  me  in  an  hour."  He  knew  the  small  vista  of 
her  street,  closed  at  the  end  and  as  dreary  as  an 
empty  pocket,  where  the  pairs  of  shabby  little 
houses,  semi-detached  but  indissolubly  united,  were 
like  married  couples  on  bad  terms.  Often,  how 
ever,  as  he  had  gone  to  the  beginning,  he  had 
never  gone  beyond.  Her  aunt  was  dead — that  he 
immediately  guessed,  as  well  as  that  it  made  a 
difference  ;  but  when  she  had  for  the  first  time 
mentioned  her  number  he  found  himself,  on  her 
leaving  him,  not  a  little  agitated  by  this  sudden 


214  THE    ALTAR    OF    THE    DEAD 

liberality.  She  was  not  a  person  with  whom,  after 
all,  one  got  on  so  very  fast  ;  it  had  taken  him 
months  and  months  to  learn  her  name,  years  and 
years  to  learn  her  address.  If  she  had  looked,  on 
this  reunion,  so  much  older  to  him,  how  in  the 
world  did  he  look  to  her  ?  She  had  reached  the 
period  of  life  that  he  had  long  since  reached,  when, 
after  separations,  the  dreadful  clock-face  of  the 
friend  we  meet  announces  the  hour  we  have  tried 
to  forget.  He  couldn't  have  said  what  he  ex 
pected,  as,  at  the  end  of  his  waiting,  he  turned  the 
corner  at  which,  for  years,  he  had  always  paused  ; 
simply  not  to  pause  was  a  sufficient  cause  for 
emotion.  It  was  an  event,  somehow  ;  and  in  all 
their  long  acquaintance  there  had  never  been  such 
a  thing.  The  event  grew  larger  when,  five  minutes 
later,  in  the  faint  elegance  of  her  little  drawing- 
room,  she  quavered  out  some  greeting  which 
showed  the  measure  she  took  of  it.  He  had  a 
strange  sense  of  having  come  for  something  in 
particular ;  strange  because,  literally,  there  was 
nothing  particular  between  them,  nothing  save  that 
they  were  at  one  on  their  great  point,  which  had 
long  ago  become  a  magnificent  matter  of  course. 
It  was  true  that,  after  she  had  said,  "  You  can 
always  come  now,  you  know,"  the  thing  he  was 
there  for  seemed  already  to  have  happened.  He 
asked  her  if  it  was  the  death  of  her  aunt  that  made 
the  difference  ;  to  which  she  replied  :  "  She  never 
knew  I  knew  you.  I  wished  her  not  to."  The 
beautiful  clearness  of  her  candor — her  faded  beauty 


THE  ALTAR  OF  THE  DEAD          215 

was  like  a  summer  twilight — disconnected  the 
words  from  any  image  of  deceit.  They  might 
have  struck  him  as  the  record  of  a  deep  dissimula 
tion  ;  but  she  had  always  given  him  a  sense  of 
noble  reasons.  The  vanished  aunt  was  present,  as 
he  looked  about  him,  in  the  small  complacencies  of 
the  room,  the  beaded  velvet  and  the  fluted  moreen  ; 
and  though,  as  we  know,  he  had  the  worship  of  the 
dead,  he  found  himself  not  definitely  regretting 
this  lady.  If  she  was  not  in  his  long  list,  how 
ever,  she  was  in  her  niece's  short  one,  and  Stran- 
som  presently  observed  to  his  friend  that  now,  at 
least,  in  the  place  they  haunted  together,  she  would 
have  another  object  of  devotion. 

"  Yes,  I  shall  have  another.  She  was  very  kind 
to  me.  It's  that  that  makes  the  difference." 

He  judged,  wondering  a  good  deal  before  he 
made  any  motion  to  leave  her,  that  the  difference 
would  somehow  be  very  great  and  would  consist  of 
still  other  things  than  her  having  let  him  come  in. 
It  rather  chilled  him,  for  they  had  been  happy 
together  as  they  were.  He  extracted  from  her  at 
any  rate  an  intimation  that  she  should  now  have 
larger  means,  that  her  aunt's  tiny  fortune  had  come 
to  her,  so  that  there  was  henceforth  only  one  to 
consume  what  had  formerly  been  made  to  suffice 
for  two.  This  was  a  joy  to  Stransom,  because  it 
had  hitherto  been  equally  impossible  for  him  either 
to  offer  her  presents  or  to  find  contentment  in  not 
doing  so.  It  was  too  ugly  to  be  at  her  side  that 
way,  abounding  himself  and  yet  not  able  to  over- 


216  THE    ALTAR    OF   THE    DEAD 

flow — a  demonstration  that  would  have  been  a 
signally  false  note.  Even  her  better  situation  too 
seemed  only  to  draw  out  in  a  sense  the  loneliness 
of  her  future.  It  would  merely  help  her  to  live 
more  and  more  for  their  small  ceremonial,  at  a 
time  when  he  himself  had  begun  wearily  to  feel 
that,  having  set  it  in  motion,  he  might  depart. 
When  they  had  sat  a  while  in  the  pale  parlor  she 
got  up  and  said  :  "  This  isn't  my  room  :  let  us  go 
into  mine."  They  had  only  to  cross  the  narrow 
hall,  as  he  found,  to  pass  into  quite  another  air. 
When  she  had  closed  the  door  of  the  second  room, 
as  she  called  it,  he  felt  that  he  had  at  last  real 
possession  of  her.  The  place  had  the  flush  of  life 
— it  was  expressive  ;  its  dark  red  walls  were  articu 
late  with  memories  and  relics.  These  were  simple 
things — photographs  and  water-colors,  scraps  of 
writing  framed  and  ghosts  of  flowers  embalmed  ; 
but  only  a  moment  was  needed  to  show  him  they 
had  a  common  meaning.  It  was  here  that  she  had 
lived  and  worked  ;  and  she  had  already  told  him 
she  would  make  no  change  of  scene.  He  saw  that 
the  objects  about  her  mainly  had  reference  to  cer 
tain  places  and  times  ;  but  after  a  minute  he  dis 
tinguished  among  them  a  small  portrait  of  a  gentle 
man.  At  a  distance  and  without  their  glasses  his 
eyes  were  only  caught  by  it  enough  to  feel  a  vague 
curiosity.  Presently  this  impulse  carried  him 
nearer,  and  in  another  moment  he  was  staring  at 
the  picture  in  stupefaction  and  with  the  sense  that 
some  sound  had  broken  from  him.  He  was  further 


THE  ALTAE  OF  THE  DEAD          217 

conscious  that  he  showed  his  companion  a  white 
face  when  he  turned  round  on  her  with  the  ex 
clamation  :  "  Acton  Hague  !  " 

She  gave  him  back  his  astonishment.  "  Did  you 
know  him?  " 

"  He  was  the  friend  of  all  my  youth — my  early 
manhood.  And  you  knew  him?" 

She  colored  at  this,  and  for  a  moment  her  an 
swer  failed  ;  her  eyes  took  in  every  thing  in  the 
place,  and  a  strange  irony  reached  her  lips  as  she 
echoed  :  "  Knew  him  ?  " 

Then  Stransom  understood,  while  the  room 
heaved  like  the  cabin  of  a  ship,  that  its  whole  con 
tents  cried  out  with  him,  that  it  was  a  museum  in 
his  honor,  that  all  her  later  years  had  been  ad 
dressed  to  him,  and  that  the  shrine  he  himself  had 
reared  had  been  passionately  converted  to  this  use. 
It  was  all  for  Acton  Hague  that  she  had  kneeled 
every  day  at  his  altar.  What  need  had  there 
been  for  a  consecrated  candle  when  he  was  present 
in  the  whole  array?  The  revelation  seemed  to 
smite  our  friend  in  the  face,  and  he  dropped  into  a 
seat  and  sat  silent.  He  had  quickly  become  aware 
that  she  was  shocked  at  the  vision  of  his  own 
shock,  but  as  she  sank  on  the  sofa  beside  him  and 
laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  he  perceived  almost  as 
soon  that  she  was  unable  to  resent  it  as  much  as 
she  would  have  liked. 


VII 

HE  learned  in  that  instant  two  things  :  one  of 
them  was  that  even  in  so  long  a  time  she  had 
gathered  no  knowledge  of  his  great  intimacy  and 
his  great  quarrel  ;  the  other  was  that,  in  spite  of 
this  ignorance,  strangely  enough,  she  supplied  on 
the  spot  a  reason  for  his  confusion.  "  How  extra 
ordinary,"  he  presently  exclaimed,  "  that  we  should 
never  have  known  !  " 

She  gave  a  wan  smile,  which  seemed  to  Stransom 
stranger  even  than  the  fact  itself.  "  I  never,  never 
spoke  of  him." 

Stransom  looked  about  the  room  again.  "  Why 
then,  if  your  life  had  been  so  full  of  him  ?  " 

"  Mayn't  I  put  you  that  question  as  well. 
Hadn't  your  life  also  been  full  of  him?" 

"  Any  one's,  every  one's  life  was  who  had  the 
wonderful  experience  of  knowing  him.  I  never 
spoke  of  him,"  Stransom  added  in  a  moment,  "  be 
cause  he  did  me — years  ago — an  unforgetable 
wrong."  She  was  silent,  and  with  the  full  effect 
of  his  presence  all  about  them  it  almost  startled 
her  visitor  to  hear  no  protest  escape  from  her. 
She  accepted  his  words  ;  he  turned  his  eyes  to  her 
again  to  see  in  what  manner  she  accepted  them.  It 
was  with  rising  tears,  and  an  extraordinary  sweet- 


THE  ALTAR  OF  THE  DEAD          219 

ness  in  the  movement  of  putting  out  her  hand  to 
take  his  own.  Nothing  more  wonderful  had  ever 
appeared  to  Stransom  than,  in  that  little  chamber 
of  remembrance  and  homage,  to  see  her  convey 
with  such  exquisite  mildness  that,  as  from  Acton 
Hague,  any  injury  was  credible.  The  clock  ticked 
in  the  stillness — Hague  had  probably  given  it  to 
her — and  while  he  let  her  hold  his  hand  with  a 
tenderness  that  was  almost  an  assumption  of  re 
sponsibility  for  his  old  pain  as  well  as  his  new, 
Stransom  after  a  minute  broke  out  :  "  Good  God, 
how  he  must  have  used  you  /" 

She  dropped  his  hand  at  this,  got  up  and,  mov 
ing  across  the  room,  made  straight  a  small  picture 
to  Avhich,  on  examining  it,  he  had  given  a  slight 
push.  Then,  turning  round  on  him,  with  her  pale 
gayety  recovered  :  "  I've  forgiven  him  !  "  she  de 
clared. 

"  I  know  what  you've  done,"  said  Stransom  ;  "  I 
know  what  you've  done  for  years."  For  a  mo 
ment  they  looked  at  each  other  across  the  room, 
with  their  long  community  of  service  in  their  eyes. 
This  short  passage  made,  to  Stransom's  sense,  for 
the  woman  before  him,  an  immense,  an  absolutely 
naked  confession  ;  which  was  presently,  suddenly 
blushing  red  and  changing  her  place  again,  what 
she  appeared  to  become  aware  that  he  perceived 
in  it.  He  got  up.  "How  you  must  have  loved 
him  ! " 

"  Women  are  not  like  men.  They  can  love  even 
where  they've  suffered." 


220          THE  ALTAK  OF  THE  DEAD 

"  Women  are  wonderful,"  said  Stransom.  "But 
I  assure  you  I've  forgiven  him  too." 

"  If  I  had  known  of  any  thing  so  strange  I 
wouldn't  have  brought  you  here." 

"  So  that  we  might  have  gone  on  in  our  igno 
rance  to  the  last  ?  '* 

"  What  do  you  call  the  last  ?  "  she  asked,  smil 
ing  still. 

At  this  he  could  smile  back  at  her.  "  You'll 
see — when  it  comes." 

She  reflected  a  moment.  "  This  is  better  per 
haps  ;  but  as  we  were — it  was  good." 

"  Did  it  never  happen  that  he  spoke  of  me  ?  " 
Stransom  enquired. 

Considering  more  intently,  she  made  no  answer, 
and  he  quickly  recognized  that  he  would  have  been 
adequately  answered  by  her  asking  how  often  he 
himself  had  spoken  of  their  terrible  friend.  Sud 
denly  a  brighter  light  broke  in  her  face,  and  an 
excited  idea  sprang  to  her  lips  in  the  question  : 
"You  have  forgiven  him?" 

"How,  if  I  hadn't,  could  I  linger  here  ?  " 

She  winced,  for  an  instant,  at  the  deep  but  un 
intended  irony  of  this  ;  but  even  while  she  did  so 
she  panted  quickly  :  "  Then  in  the  lights  on  your 
altar  ?  " 

"  There's  never  a  light  for  Acton  Hague  !  " 

She  stared,  with  a  great  visible  fall.  "  But  if 
he's  one  of  your  Dead?" 

"  He's  one  of  the  world's,  if  you  like — he's  one 
of  yours.  But  he's  not  one  of  mine.  Mine  are 


THE  ALTAR  OF  THE  DEAD          221 

only  the  Dead  who  died  possessed  of  me.  They're 
mine  in  death  because  they  were  mine  in  life." 

"He  was  yours  in  life,  then,  even  if  for  a  while 
he  ceased  to  be.  If  you  forgave  him  you  went 
back  to  him.  Those  whom  we've  once  loved " 

"Are  those  who  can  hurt  us  most,"  Stransom 
broke  in. 

"  Ah,  it's  not  true — you've  not  forgiven  him  !  " 
she  wailed,  with  a  passion  that  startled  him. 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment.  "  What  was  it  he 
did  to  you  ?  " 

"  Every  thing  !  "  Then  abruptly  she  put  out  her 
hand  in  farewell.  "  Good-by." 

He  turned  as  cold  as  he  had  turned  that  night 
he  read  of  the  death  of  Acton  Hague.  "  You 
mean  that  we  meet  no  more  ?  " 

"Not  as  we  have  met — not  there  J" 

He  stood  aghast  at  this  snap  of  their  great  bond, 
at  the  renouncement  that  rang  out  in  the  word  she 
so  passionately  emphasized.  "  But  what's  changed 
—for  you  ?  " 

She  hesitated,  in  all  the  vividness  of  a  trouble 
that,  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  known  her, 
made  her  splendidly  stern.  "  How  can  you 
understand  now  when  you  didn't  understand 
before?" 

"  I  didn't  understand  before  only  because  I 
didn't  know.  Now  that  I  know,  I  see  what  I've 
been  living  with  for  years,"  Stransom  went  on 
very  gently. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  larger  allowance,  as  if 


222  THE    ALTAR    OF   THE    DEAD 

she  appreciated  his  good-nature.  "  How  can  I, 
then,  with  this  new  knowledge  of  my  own,  ask 
you  to  continue  to  live  with  it  ? " 

"  I  set  up  my  altar,  with  its  multiplied  mean 
ings "  Stransom  began  ;  but  she  quickly  inter 
rupted  him : 

"  You  set  up  your  altar,  and  when  I  wanted  one 
most  I  found  it  magnificently  ready.  I  used  it, 
with  the  gratitude  I've  always  shown  you,  for  I 
knew  from  of  old  that  it  was  dedicated  to  Death. 
I  told  you,  long  ago,  that  my  Dead  were  not 
many.  Yours  were,  but  all  you  had  done  for  them 
was  none  too  much  for  my  worship  !  You  had 
placed  a  great  light  for  Each — I  gathered  them 
together  for  One  !  " 

"  We  had  simply  different  intentions,"  Stran 
som  replied.  "That,  as  you  say,  I  perfectly 
knew,  and  I  don't  see  why  your  intention  shouldn't 
still  sustain  you." 

"That's  because  you're  generous — you  can 
imagine  and  think.  But  the  spell  is  broken." 

It  seemed  to  poor  Stransom,  in  spite  of  his  resist 
ance,  that  it  really  was,  and  the  prospect  stretched 
gray  and  void  before  him.  All,  however,  that  he 
could  say  was  :  "  I  hope  you'll  try  before  you  give 
up." 

"If  I  had  known  you  had  ever  known  him,  I 
should  have  taken  for  granted  he  had  his  candle," 
she  presently  rejoined.  "  What's  changed,  as  you 
say,  is  that  on  making  the  discovery  I  find  he 
never  has  had  it.  That  makes  my  attitude  " — she 


THE    ALTAR    OF    THE    DEAD  223 

paused  a  moment,  as  if  thinking  how  to  express  it, 
then  said  simply — "all  wrong." 

"  Come  once  again,"  Stransorn  pleaded. 

"Will  you  give  him  his  candle?"  she  asked. 

He  hesitated,  but  only  because  it  would  sound 
ungracious ;  not  because  he  had  a  doubt  of 
his  feeling.  "  I  can't  do  that ! "  he  declared  at 
last. 

"  Then  good-by."  And  she  gave  him  her  hand 
again. 

He  had  got  his  dismissal  ;  besides  which,  in  the 
agitation  of  every  thing  that  had  opened  out  to 
him,  he  felt  the  need  to  recover  himself  as  he  could 
only  do  in  solitude.  Yet  he  lingered — lingered  to 
see  if  she  had  no  compromise  to  express,  no  attenu 
ation  to  propose.  But  he  only  met  her  great 
lamenting  eyes,  in  which  indeed  he  read  that  she 
was  as  sorry  for  him  as  for  any  one  else.  This 
made  him  say  :  "  At  least,  at  any  rate,  I  may  see 
you  here." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  come  if  you  like.  But  I  don't  think 
it  will  do." 

Stransom  looked  round  the  room  once  more  ; 
he  felt  in  truth  by  no  means  sure  it  would  do. 
He  felt  also  stricken  and  more  and  more  cold,  and 
his  chill  was  like  an  ague  in  which  he  had  to  make 
an  effort  not  to  shake.  "  I  must  try  on  my  side,  if 
you  can't  try  on  yours,"  he  dolefully  rejoined.  She 
came  out  with  him  to  the  hall  and  into  the  door 
way,  and  here  he  put  to  her  the  question  that 
seemed  to  him  the  one  he  could  least  answer  from 


224  THE    ALTAR    OP    THE    DEAD 

his  own  wit.  "  Why  have  you  never  let  me  come 
before?" 

"  Because  my  aunt  would  have  seen  you,  and  I 
should  have  had  to  tell  her  how  I  came  to  know 
you." 

"  And  what  would  have  been  the  objection  to 
that  ?  " 

"  It  would  have  entailed  other  explanations  ; 
there  would  at  any  rate  have  been  that  danger." 

"  Surely  she  knew  you  went  every  day  to  church," 
Stransom  objected. 

"  She  didn't  know  what  I  went  for." 

"  Of  me  then  she  never  even  heard  ?  " 

"You'll  think  I  was  deceitful.  But  I  didn't 
need  to  be  ! " 

Stransom  was  now  on  the  lower  doorstep,  and 
his  hostess  held  the  door  half-closed  behind  him. 
Through  what  remained  of  the  opening  he  saw  her 
framed  face.  He  made  a  supreme  appeal.  "  What 
did  he  do  to  you  ?  " 

"  It  would  have  come  out — she  would  have  told 
you.  That  fear,  at  my  heart — that  was  my 
reason  !  "  And  she  closed  the  door,  shutting  him 
out. 


VIII 

HE  had  ruthlessly  abandoned  her — that,  of 
course,  was  what  he  had  done.  Stransom  made  it 
all  out  in  solitude,  at  leisure,  fitting  the  unmatched 
pieces  gradually  together  and  dealing  one  by  one 


THE    ALTAR    OF    THE    DEAD  225 

with  a  hundred  obscure  points.  She  had  known 
Hague  only  after  her  present  friend's  relations 
with  him  had  wholly  terminated  ;  obviously  indeed 
a  good  while  after  ;  and  it  was  natural  enough  that 
of  his  previous  life  she  should  have  ascertained 
only  what  he  had  judged  good  to  communicate. 
There  were  passages  it  was  quite  conceivable  that 
even  in  moments  of  the  tenderest  expansion,  he 
should  have  withheld.  Of  many  facts  in  the  career 
of  a  man  so  in  the  eye  of  the  world  there  was  of 
course  a  common  knowledge  ;  but  this  lady  lived 
apart  from  public  affairs,  and  the  only  period 
perfectly  clear  to  her  would  have  been  the  period 
following  the  dawn  of  her  own  drama.  A  man, 
in  her  place,  would  have  "  looked  up  "  the  past — 
would  even  have  consulted  old  newspapers.  It 
remained  singular  indeed  that  in  her  long  contact 
with  the  partner  of  her  retrospect  no  accident  had 
lighted  a  train  ;  but  there  was  no  arguing  about 
that ;  the  accident  had  in  fact  come  ;  it  had  simply 
been  that  security  had  prevailed.  She  had  taken 
what  Hague  had  given  her,  and  her  blankness  in 
respect  of  his  other  connections  was  only  a  touch 
in  the  picture  of  that  plasticity  Stransom  had 
supreme  reason  to  know  so  great  a  master  could 
have  been  trusted  to  produce. 

This  picture,  for  a  while,  was  all  that  our  friend 
saw  ;  he  caught  his  breath  again  and  again  as  it 
came  over  him  that  the  woman  with  whom  he  had 
had  for  years  so  fine  a  point  of  contact  was  a 
woman  whom  Acton  Hague,  of  all  men  in  the 
15 


226  THE    ALTAR    OF   THE    DEAD 

world,  had  more  or  less  fashioned.  Such  as  she 
sat  there  to-day,  she  was  ineffaceably  stamped  with 
him.  Beneficent,  blameless  as  Stransom  held  her, 
he  couldn't  rid  himself  of  the  sense  that  he  had  been 
the  victim  of  a  fraud.  She  had  imposed  upon  him 
hugely,  though  she  had  known  it  as  little  as  he. 
All  this  later  past  came  back  to  him  as  a  time  gro 
tesquely  misspent.  Such  at  least  were  his  first 
reflections ;  after  a  while  he  found  himself  more 
divided  and  only,  as  the  end  of  it,  more  troubled. 
He  imagined,  recalled,  reconstituted,  figured  out 
for  himself  the  truth  she  had  refused  to  give  him  ; 
the  effect  of  which  was  to  make  her  seem  to  him 
only  more  saturated  with  her  fate.  He  felt  her 
spirit,  in  the  strange  business,  to  be  finer  than  his 
own  in  the  very  degree  in  which  she  might  have 
been,  in  which  she  certainly  had  been,  more  wronged. 
A  woman,  when  she  was  wronged,  was  always  more 
wronged  than  a  man,  and  there  were  conditions 
when  the  least  she  could  have  got  off  with  was 
more  than  the  most  he  could  have  to  endure.  He 
was  sure  this  rare  creature  wouldn't  have  got  off 
with  the  least.  He  was  awe-struck  at  the  thought 
of  such  a  surrender — such  a  prostration.  Moulded 
indeed  she  had  been  by  powerful  hands,  to  have 
converted  her  injury  into  an  exaltation  so  sublime. 
The  fellow  had  only  had  to  die  for  every  thing  that 
was  ugly  in  him  to  be  washed  out  in  a  torrent.  It 
was  vain  to  try  to  guess  what  had  taken  place,  but 
nothing  could  be  clearer  than  that  she  had  ended 
by  accusing  herself.  She  absolved  him  at  every 


THE    ALTAR    OF   THE    DEAD  227 

point,  she  adored  her  very  wounds.  The  passion 
by  which  he  had  profited  had  rushed  back  after 
its  ebb,  and  now  the  tide  of  tenderness,  arrested 
forever  at  flood,  was  too  deep  even  to  fathom. 
Stransom  sincerely  considered  that  he  had  forgiven 
him  ;  but  how  little  he  had  achieved  the  miracle  that 
she  had  achieved  !  His  forgiveness  was  silence, 
but  hers  was  mere  unuttered  sound.  The  light 
she  had  demanded  for  his  altar  would  have 
broken  his  silence  with  a  blare  ;  whereas  all  the 
lights  in  the  church  were  for  her  too  great  a  hush. 
She  had  been  right  about  the  difference — she 
had  spoken  the  truth  about  the  change  ;  Stransom 
felt  before  long  that  he  was  perversely  but  defi 
nitely  jealous.  His  tide  had  ebbed,  not  flowed  ; 
if  he  had  "  forgiven  "  Acton  Hague,  that  forgive 
ness  was  a  motive  with  a  broken  spring.  The  very 
fact  of  her  appeal  for  a  material  sign,  a  sign  that 
should  make  her  dead  lover  equal  there  with  the 
others,  presented  the  concession  to  Stransom  as 
too  handsome  for  the  case.  He  had  never  thought 
of  himself  as  hard,  but  an  exorbitant  article  might 
easily  render  him  so.  He  moved  round  and  round 
this  one,  but  only  in  widening  circles — the  more 
he  looked  at  it  the  less  acceptable  it  appeared.  At 
the  same  time  he  had  no  illusion  about  the  effect 
of  his  refusal  ;  he  perfectly  saw  that  it  was  the 
beginning  of  a  separation.  He  left  her  alone  for 
many  days  ;  but  when  at  last  he  called  upon  her 
again  this  conviction  acquired  a  depressing  force. 
In  the  interval  he  had  kept  away  from  the  church, 


228          THE  ALTAR  OF  THE  DEAD 

and  he  needed  no  fresh  assurance  from  her  to  know 
she  had  not  entered  it.  The  change  was  complete 
enough  ;  it  had  broken  up  her  life.  Indeed  it  had 
broken  up  his,  for  all  the  fires  of  his  shrine  seemed 
to  him  suddenly  to  have  been  quenched.  A  great 
indifference  fell  upon  him,  the  weight  of  which 
was  in  itself  a  pain  ;  and  he  never  knew  what  his 
devotion  had  been  for  him  till,  in  that  shock,  it 
stopped  like  a  dropped  watch.  Neither  did  he 
know  with  how  large  a  confidence  he  had  counted 
on  the  final  service  that  had  now  failed  ;  the  mortal 
deception  was  that  in  this  abandonment  the  whole 
future  gave  way. 

These  days  of  her  absence  proved  to  him  of  what 
she  was  capable  ;  all  the  more  that  he  never 
dreamed  she  was  vindictive  or  even  resentful.  It 
was  not  in  anger  she  had  forsaken  him  ;  it  was  in 
absolute  submission  to  hard  reality,  to  crude  des 
tiny.  This  came  home  to  him  when  he  sat  with 
her  again  in  the  room  in  which  her  late  aunt's  con 
versation  lingered  like  the  tone  of  a  cracked 
piano.  She  tried  to  make  him  forget  how  much 
they  were  estranged  ;  but  in  the  very  presence  of 
what  they  had  given  up  it  was  impossible  not  to 
be  sorry  for  her.  He  had  taken  from  her  so  much 
more  than  she  had  taken  from  him.  He  argued 
with  her  again,  told  her  she  could  now  have  the 
altar  to  herself  ;  but  she  only  shook  her  head  with 
pleading  sadness,  begging  him  not  to  waste  his 
breath  on  the  impossible,  the  extinct.  Couldn't  he 
see  that,  in  relation  to  her  private  need,  the  rites 


THE  ALTAR  OF  THE  DEAD          229 

he  had  established  were  practically  an  elaborate 
exclusion  ?  She  regretted  nothing  that  had  hap 
pened  ;  it  had  all  been  right  so  long  as  she  didn't 
know,  and  it  was  only  that  now  she  knew  too 
much,  and  that  from  the  moment  their  eyes  were 
open  they  would  simply  have  to  conform.  It  had 
doubtless  been  happiness  enough  for  them  to  go 
on  together  so  long.  She  was  gentle,  grateful, 
resigned  ;  but  this  was  only  the  form  of  a  deep 
immutability.  He  saw  that  he  should  never  more 
cross  the  threshold  of  the  second  room,  and  he  felt 
how  much  this  alone  would  make  a  stranger  of  him 
and  give  a  conscious  stiffness  to  his  visits.  He 
would  have  hated  to  plunge  again  into  that  well  of 
reminders,  but  he  enjoyed  quite  as  little  the  vacant 
alternative. 

After  he  had  been  with  her  three  or  four  times 
it  seemed  to  him  that  to  have  come  at  last  into  her 
house  had  had  the  horrid  effect  of  diminishing 
their  intimacy.  He  had  known  her  better,  had 
liked  her  in  greater  freedom,  when  they  merely" 
walked  together  or  kneeled  together.  Now  they 
only  pretended  ;  before  they  had  been  nobly  sin-^^J 
cere.  They  began  to  try  their  walks  again,  but  it 
proved  a  lame  imitation,  for  these  things,  from  the 
first,  beginning  or  ending,  had  been  connected 
with  their  visits  to  the  church.  They  had  either 
strolled  away  as  they  came  out  or  had  gone  in  to 
rest  on  the  return.  Besides,  Stransom  now  grew 
weary  ;.  he  couldn't  walk  as  of  old.  The  omission 
made  every  thing  false  ;  it  was  a  horrible  mutila- 


230          THE  ALTAR  OF  THE  DEAD 

tion  of  tlieir  lives.  Our  friend  was  frank  and 
monotonous  ;  he  made  no  mystery  of  his  remon 
strance  and  no  secret  of  his  predicament.  Her 
response,  whatever  it  was,  always  came  to  the 
same  thing — an  implied  invitation  to  him  to  judge, 
if  he  spoke  of  predicaments,  of  how  much  comfort 
she  had  in  hers.  For  him  indeed  there  was  no 
comfort  even  in  complaint,  for  every  allusion  to 
what  had  befallen  them  only  made  the  author  of 
their  trouble  more  present.  Acton  Hague  was 
between  them,  that  was  the  essence  of  the  matter  ; 
and  he  was  never  so  much  between  them  as  when 
they  were  face  to  face.  Stransom,  even  while  he 
wanted  to  banish  him,  had  the  strangest  sense  of 
desiring  a  satisfaction  that  could  come  only  from 
having  accepted  him.  Deeply  disconcerted  by 
what  he  knew,  he  was  still  worse  tormented  by 
really  not  knowing.  Perfectly  aware  that  it  would 
have  been  horribly  vulgar  to  abuse  his  old  friend 
or  to  tell  his  companion  the  story  of  their  quarrel, 
it  yet  vexed  him  that  her  depth  of  reserve  should 
give  him  no  opening  and  should  have  the  effect  of 
a  magnanimity  greater  even  than  his  own. 

He  challenged  himself,  denounced  himself,  asked 
himself  if  he  were  in  -love  with  her  that  he  should 
care  so  much  what  adventures  she  had  had.  He 
had  never  for  a  moment  admitted  that  he  was  in 
love  with  her  ;  therefore  nothing  could  have  sur 
prised  him  more  than  to  discover  that  he  was 
jealous.  What  but  jealousy  could  give  a  man  that 
sore,  contentious  wish  to  have  the  detail  of  what 


THE    ALTAR    OF   THE    DEAD  231 

would  make  him  suffer  ?  Well  enough  he  knew 
indeed  that  he  should  never  have  it  from  the  only 
person  who,  to-day,  could  give  it  to  him.  She  let 
him  press  her  with  his  sombre  eyes,  only  smiling 
at  him  with  an  exquisite  mercy  and  breathing 
equally  little  the  word  that  would  expose  her 
secret  and  the  word  that  would  appear  to  deny  his 
literal  right  to  bitterness.  She  told  nothing,  she 
judged  nothing  ;  she  accepted  every  thing  but 
the  possibility  of  her  return  to  the  old  symbols. 
Stransom  divined  that  for  her,  too,  they  had  been 
vividly  individual,  had  stood  for  particular  hours 
or  particular  attributes — particular  links  in  her 
chain.  He  made  it  clear  to  himself,  as  he  believed, 
that  his  difficulty  lay  in  the  fact  that  the  very 
nature  of  the  plea  for  his  faithless  friend  con 
stituted  a  prohibition;  that  it  happened  to  have 
come  from  her  was  precisely  the  vice  that  attached 
to  it.  To  the  voice  of  impersonal  generosity  he 
felt  sure  he  would  have  listened  ;  he  would  have 
deferred  to  an  advocate  who,  speaking  from 
abstract  justice,  knowing  of  his  omission,  without 
having  known  Hague,  should  have  had  the  imagi 
nation  to  say  :  "  Oh,  remember  only  the  best  of 
him  ;  pity  him  ;  provide  for  him  !  "  To  provide 
for  him  on  the  very  ground  of  having  discovered 
another  of  his  turpitudes  was  not  to  pity  him,  but 
to  glorify  him.  The  more  Stransom  thought,  the 
more  he  made  it  out  that  this  relation  of  Hague's, 
whatever  it  was,  could  only  have  been  a  deception 
finely  practised.  Where  had  it  come  into  the  life 


232  THE    ALTAR    OF    THE   DEAD 

that  all  men  saw  ?  Why  had  he  never  heard  of  it, 
if  it  had  had  the  frankness  of  an  attitude  honor 
able  ?  Stransom  knew  enough  of  his  other  ties,  of 
his  obligations  and  appearances,  not  to  say  enough 
of  his  general  character,  to  be  sure  there  had  been 
some  infamy.  In  one  way  or  another  the  poor 
woman  had  been  coldly  sacrificed.  That  was  why, 
at  the  last  as  well  as  the  first,  he  must  still  leave 
him  out. 


IX 

AND  yet  this  was  no  solution,  especially  after 
he  had  talked  again  to  his  friend  of  all  it  had 
been  his  plan  that  she  should  finally  do  for  him. 
He  had  talked  in  the  other  days,  and  she  had 
responded  with  a  frankness  qualified  only  by  a 
courteous  reluctance — a  reluctance  that  touched 
him — to  linger  on  the  question  of  his  death.  She 
had  then  practically  accepted  the  charge,  suffered 
him  to  feel  that  he  could  depend  upon  her  to  be 
the  eventual  guardian  of  his  shrine  ;  and  it  was  in 
the  name  of  what  had  so  passed  between  them  that 
he  appealed  to  her  not  to  forsake  him  in  his  old 
age.  She  listened  to  him  now  with  a  sort  of  shin 
ing  coldness  and  all  her  habitual  forbearance  to 
insist  on  her  terms  ;  her  deprecation  was  even  still 
tenderer,  for  it  expressed  the  compassion  of  her 
own  sense  that  he  was  abandoned.  Her  terms, 
however,  remained  the  same,  and  scarcely  the  less 


THE  ALTAE  OF  THE  DEAD          233 

audible  for  not  being  uttered  ;  although  he  was 
sure  that,  secretly,  even  more  than  he,  she  felt 
bereft  of  the  satisfaction  his  solemn  trust  was  to 
have  provided  for  her.  They  both  missed  the  rich 
future,  but  she  missed  it  most,  because,  after  all, 
it  was  to  have  been  entirely  hers  ;  and  it  was  her 
acceptance  of  the  loss  that  gave  him  the  full 
measure  of  her  preference  for  the  thought  of 
Acton  Hague  over  any  other  thought  whatever. 
He  had  humor  enough  to  laugh  rather  grimly 
when  he  said  to  himself  :  "  Why  the  deuce  does 
she  like  him  so  much  more  than  she  likes  me  ?" — 
the  reasons  being  really  so  conceivable.  But  even 
his  faculty  of  analysis  left  the  irritation  standing, 
and  this  irritation  proved  perhaps  the  greatest 
misfortune  that  had  ever  overtaken  him.  There 
had  been  nothing  yet  that  made  him  so  much  want 
to  give  up.  He  had  of  course  by  this  time  well 
reached  the  age  of  renouncement ;  but  it  had  not 
hitherto  been  vivid  to  him  that  it  was  time  to  give 
up  every  thing. 

Practically,  at  the  end  of  six  months,  he  had 
renounced  the  friendship  that  was  once  so  charm 
ing  and  comforting.  His  privation  had  two  faces, 
and  the  face  it  had  turned  to  him  on  the  occasion 
of  his  last  attempts  to  cultivate  that  friendship  was 
the  one  he  could  look  at  least.  This  was  the 
privation  he  inflicted  ;  the  other  was  the  privation 
he  bore.  The  conditions  she  never  phrased  he 
used  to  murmur  to  himself  in  solitude  :  "  One 
more,  one  more — only  just  one."  Certainly  he  was 


234  THE    ALTAE    OF   THE    DEAD 

going  down  ;  he  often  felt  it  when  he  caught  him 
self,  over  his  work,  staring  at  vacancy  and  giving 
voice  to  that  inanity.  There  was  proof  enough 
besides  in  his  being  so  weak  and  so  ill.  His  irrita 
tion  took  the  form  of  melancholy,  and  his  melan 
choly  that  of  the  conviction  that  his  health  had 
quite  failed.  His  altar,  moreover,  had  ceased  to 
exist  ;  his  chapel,  in  his  dreams,  was  a  great  dark 
cavern.  All  the  lights  had  gone  out — all  his  Dead 
had  died  again.  He  couldn't  exactly  see  at  first 
how  it  had  been  in  the  power  of  his  late  companion 
to  extinguish  them,  since  it  was  neither  for  her  nor 
\  uy  her  that  they  had  been  called  into  being.  Then 
he  understood  that  it  was  essentially  in  his  own 
soul  the  revival  had  taken  place,  and  that  in  the 
air  of  this  soul  they  were  now  unable  to  breathe. 
The  candles  might  mechanically  burn,  but  each  of 
them  had  lost  its  lustre.  The  church  had  become 
a  void  ;  it  was  his  presence,  her  presence,  their 
common  presence,  that  had  made  the  indispensable 
medium.  If  any  thing  was  wrong  every  thing 
was — her  silence  spoiled  the  tune. 

Then,  when  three  months  were  gone,  he  felt  so 
lonely  that  he  went  back  ;  reflecting  that  as  they 
had  been  his  best  society  for  years  his  Dead  per 
haps  wouldn't  let  him  forsake  them  without  doing 
something  more  for  him.  They  stood  there,  as  he 
had  left  them,  in  their  tall  radiance,  the  bright 
cluster  that  had  already  made  him,  on  occasions 
when  he  was  willing  to  compare  small  things  with 
great,  liken  them  to  a  group  of  sea-lights  on  the 


THE  ALTAR  OF  THE  DEAD          235 

edge  of  the  ocean  of  life.  It  was  a  relief  to  him, 
after  a  while,  as  he  sat  there,  to  feel  that  they  had 
still  a  virtue.  lie  was  more  and  more  easily  tired, 
and  he  always  drove  now  ;  the  action  of  his  heart 
was  weak,  and  gave  him  none  of  the  reassurance 
conferred  by  the  action  of  his  fancy.  None  the 
less  he  returned  yet  again,  returned  several  times, 
and  finally,  during  six  months,  haunted  the  plac°! 
with  a  renewal  of  frequency  and  a  strain  of  im 
patience.  In  winter  the  church  was  unwarmed, 
and  exposure  to  cold  was  forbidden  him,  but  the 
glow  of  his  shrine  was  an  influence  in  which  he 
could  almost  bask.  He  sat  and  wondered  to  what 
he  had  reduced  his  absent  associate,  and  what  she 
now  did  with  the  hours  of  her  absence.  There  were 
other  churches,  there  were  other  altars,  there  were 
other  candles  ;  in  one  way  or  another  her  piety 
would  still  operate  ;  he  couldn't  absolutely  have 
deprived  her  of  her  rites.  So  he  argued,  but  with 
out  contentment  ;  for  he  well  enough  knew  there 
was  no  other  such  rare  semblance  of  the  mountain 
of  light  she  had  once  mentioned  to  him  as  the 
satisfaction  of  her  need.  As  this  semblance  again 
gradually  grew  great  to  him  and  his  pious  practice 
more  regular,  there  was  a  sharper  and  sharper  pang 
for  him  in  the  imagination  of  her  darkness  ;  for 
never  so  much  as  in  these  weeks  had  his  rites  been 
real,  never  had  his  gathered  company  seemed  so  to 
respond  and  even  to  invite.  He  lost  himself  in  the 
large  lustre,  which  was  more  and  more  what  he 
had  from  the  first  wished  it  to  be — as  dazzling  as 


236  THE    ALTAE    OF   THE    DEAD 

the  vision  of  heaven  in  the  mind  of  a  child.  He 
wandered  in  the  fields  of  light  ;  he  passed,  among 
the  tall  tapers,  from  tier  to  tier,  from  fire  to  fire, 
from  name  to  name,  from  the  white  intensity  of 
one  clear  emblem,  of  one  saved  soul,  to  another. 
It  was  in  the  quiet  sense  of  having  saved  his  souls 
that  his  deep,  strange  instinct  rejoiced.  This  was 
no  dim  theological  rescue,  no  boon  of  a  contingent 
world  ;  they  were  saved  better  than  faith  or  works 
could  save  them,  saved  for  the  warm  world  they 
had  shrunk  from  dying  to,  for  actuality,  for  con 
tinuity,  for  the  certainty  of  human  remembrance. 
By  this  time  he  had  survived  all  his  friends  ; 
the  last  straight  flame  was  three  years  old  ;  there 
was  no  one  to  add  to  the  list.  Over  and  over  he 
called  his  roll,  and  it  appeared  to  him  compact 
and  complete.  Where  should  he  put  in  another  ; 
where,  if  there  were  no  other  objection,  would  it 
stand  in  its  place  in  the  rank  ?  He  reflected,  with 
a  want  of  sincerity  of  whicli  he  was  quite  con 
scious,  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  determine  that 
place.  More  and  more,  besides,  face  to  face  with 
his  little  legion,  reading  over  endless  histories, 
handling  the  empty  shells  and  playing  with  the 
silence — mor^  and  more  he  could  see  that  he  had 
never  introduced  an  alien.  He  had  had  his  great 
compassions,  his  indulgences — there  were  cases  in 
which  they  had  been  immense  ;  but  what  had  his 
devotion  after  all  been,  if  it  hadn't  been  funda 
mentally  a  respect?  He  was,  however,  himself 
surprised  at  his  stiffness  ;  by  the  end  of  the  winter 


THE    ALTAR    OP   THE    DEAD  237 

the  responsibility  of  it  was  what  was  uppermost  in 
his  thoughts.  The  refrain  had  grown  old  to  them, 
the  plea  for  just  one  more.  There  came  a  day 
when,  for  simple  exhaustion,  if  symmetry  should 
really  demand  just  one  more,  he  was  ready  to  take 
symmetry  into  account.  Symmetry  was  harmony, 
and  the  idea  of  harmony  began  to  haunt  him  ;  he 
said  to  himself  that  harmony  was  of  course  every 
thing.  He  took,  in  fancy,  his  composition  to 
pieces,  redistributing  it  into  other  lines,  making 
other  juxtapositions  and  contrasts.  He  shifted 
this  and  that  candle  ;  he  made  the  spaces  different ; 
he  effaced  the  disfigurement  of  a  possible  gap. 
There  were  subtle  and  complex  relations,  a  scheme 
of  cross-reference,  and  moments  in  which  he 
seemed  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  void  so  sensible 
to  the  woman  who  wandered  in  exile  or  sat  where 
he  had  seen  her  with  the  portrait  of  Acton  Hague. 
Finally,  in  this  way,  he  arrived  at  a  conception  of 
the  total,  the  ideal,  which  left  a  clear  opportunity 
for  just  another  figure.  "  Just  one  more,  to  round 
it  off ;  just  one  more,  just  one,"  continued  to  hum 
itself  in  his  head.  There  was  a  strange  confusion 
in  the  thought,  for  he  felt  the  day  to  be  near  when 
lie  too  should  be  one  of  the  Others.  What,  in  this 
case,  would  the  Others  matter  to  him,  since  they 
only  mattered  to  the  living  ?  Even  as  one  of  the 
Dead,  what  would  his  altar  matter  to  him,  since 
his  particular  dream  of  keeping  it  up  had  melted 
away  ?  What  had  harmony  to  do  with  the  case,  if 
his  lights  were  all  to  be  quenched  ?  What  he  had 


238  THE    ALTAR    OF    THE    DEAD 

hoped  for  was  an  instituted  thing.  He  might  per 
petuate  it  on  some  other  pretext,  but  his  special 
meaning  would  have  dropped.  This  meaning  was 
to  have  lasted  with  the  life  of  the  one  other  person 
who  understood  it. 

In  March  he  had  an  illness  during  which  lie 
spent  a  fortnight  in  bed,  and  when  he  revived  a 
little  he  was  told  of  two  things  that  had  happened. 
One  was  that  a  lady,  whose  name  was  not  known 
to  the  servants  (she  left  none),  had  been  three  times 
to  ask  about  him ;  the  other  was  that  in  his  sleep, 
and  on  an  occasion  when  his  mind  evidently  wan 
dered,  he  was  heard  to  murmur  a^ain  and  again  : 
"  Just  one  more — just  one."  As  soon  as  he  found 
himself  able  to  go  out,  and  before  the  doctor  in 
attendance  had  pronounced  him  so,  he  drove  to  see 
the  lady  who  had  come  to  ask  about  him.  She 
was  not  at  home  ;  but  this  gave  him  the  oppor 
tunity,  before  his  strength  should  fail  again,  to 
take  his  way  to  the  church.  He  entered  the  church 
alone  ;  he  had  declined,  in  a  happy  manner  he  pos 
sessed  of  being  able  to  decline  effectively,  the  com 
pany  of  his  servant  or  of  a  nurse.  He  knew  now 
perfectly  what  these  good  people  thought ;  they 
had  discovered  his  clandestine  connection,  the 
magnet  that  had  drawn  him  for  so  many  years, 
and  doubtless  attached  a  significance  of  their  own 
to  the  odd  words  they  had  repeated  to  him.  The 
nameless  lady  was  the  clandestine  connection — a 
fact  nothing  could  have  made  clearer  than  his  in 
decent  haste  to  rejoin  her.  He  sank  on  his  knees 


THE  ALTAR  OP  THE  DEAD          239 

before  his  altar,  and  his  head  fell  over  on  his  hands. 
His  weakness,  his  life's  weariness,  overtook  him. 
It  seemed  to  him  he  had  come  for  the  great  sur 
render.  At  first  he  asked  himself  how  he  should 
get  away  ;  then,  with  the  failing  belief  in  the 
power,  the  very  desire  to  move  gradually  left  him. 
He  had  come,  as  he  always  came,  to  lose  himself  ; 
the  fields  of  light  were  still  there  to  stray  in  ;  only 
this  time,  in  straying,  he  would  never  come  back. 
He  had  given  himself  to  his  Dead,  and  it  was 
good  ;  this  time  his  Dead  would  keep  him.  He 
couldn't  rise  from  his  knees  ;  he  believed  he 
should  never  rise  again  ;  all  he  could  do  was  to 
lift  his  face  and  fix  his  eyes  upon  his  lights.  They 
looked  unusualh^  strangely  splendid,  but  the  one 
that  always  drew  him  most  had  an  unprecedented 
lustre.  It  was  the  central  voice  of  the  choir,  the 
glowing  heart  of  the  brightness,  and  on  this  occa 
sion  it  seemed  to  expand,  to  spread  great  wings  of 
flame.  The  whole  altar  flared — it  dazzled  and 
blinded  ;  but  the  source  of  the  vast  radiance 
burned  clearer  than  the  rest ;  it  gathered  itself 
into  form,  and  the  form  was  human  beauty  and 
human  charity  ;  it  was  the  far-off  face  of  Mary 
Antrim.  She  smiled  at  him  from  the  glory  of 
heaven — she  brought  the  glory  down  with  her  to 
take  him.  He  bowed  his  head  in  submission,  and 
at  the  same  moment  another  wave  rolled  over  him. 
Was  it  the  quickening  of  joy  to  pain  ?  In  the 
midst  of  his  joy,  at  any  rate,  he  felt  his  buried 
face  grow  hot  as  with  some  communicated  knowl- 


240  THE    ALTAR    OF   THE    DEAD 

edge  that  had  the  force  of  a  reproach.  It  suddenly 
made  him  contrast  that  very  rapture  with  the  bliss 
he  had  refused  to  another.  This  breath  of  the 
passion  immortal  was  all  that  other  had  asked  ; 
the  descent  of  Mary  Antrim  opened  his  spirit  with 
a  great  compunctious  throb  for  the  descent  of 
Acton  Hague.  It  was  as  if  Stransom  had  read 
what  her  eyes  said  to  him. 

After  a  moment  he  looked  round  him  in  a  de 
spair  which  made  him  feel  as  if  the  source  of  life 
were  ebbing.  The  church  had  been  empty — he 
was  alone  ;  but  he  wanted  to  have  something 
done,  to  make  a  last  appeal.  This  idea  gave  him 
strength  for  an  effort  ;  he  rose  to  his  feet  with  a 
movement  that  made  him  turn,  supporting  himself 
by  the  back  of  a  bench.  Behind  him  was  a  pros 
trate  figure,  a  figure  he  had  seen  before  ;  a  woman 
in  deep  mourning,  bowed  in  grief  or  in  prayer. 
He  had  seen  her  in  other  days — the  first  time  he 
came  into  the  church,  and  he  slightly  wavered 
there,  looking  at  her  again  till  she  seemed  to  be 
come  aware  he  had  noticed  her.  She  raised  her 
head  and  met  his  eyes  :  the  partner  of  his  long 
worship  was  there.  She  looked  across  at  him  an 
instant  with  a  face  wondering  and  scared  ;  he  saw 
that  he  had  given  her  an  alarm.  Then  quickly 
rising,  she  came  straight  to  him  with  both  hands  out. 

"  Then  you  could  come  ?  God  sent  you  !  "  he 
murmured,  with  a  happy  smile. 

"  You're  very  ill — you  shouldn't  be  here,"  she 
urged,  in  anxious  reply, 


THE  ALTAR  OF  THE  DEAD          241 

"  God  sent  me  too,  I  think.  I  was  ill  when  I 
came,  but  the  sight  of  you  does  wonders."  He 
held  her  hands,  and  they  steadied  and  quickened 
him.  "  I've  something  to  tell  you." 

"Don't  tell  me!"  she  tenderly  pleaded;  "let 
me  tell  you.  This  afternoon,  by  a  miracle,  the 
sweetest  of  miracles,  the  sense  of  our  difference  left 
me.  I  was  out — I  was  near,  thinking,  wandering 
alone,  when,  on  the  spot,  something  changed  in  my 
heart.  It's  my  confession — there  it  is.  To  come 
back,  to  come  back  on  the  instant — the  idea  gave 
me  wings.  It  was  as  if  I  suddenly  saw  something 
— as  if  it  all  became  possible.  I  could  come  for 
what  you  yourself  came  for  :  that  was  enough. 
So  here  I  am.  It's  not  for  my  own — that's  over. 
But  I'm  here  for  them"  And  breathless,  infinitely 
relieved  by  her  lo\v,  precipitate  explanation,  she 
looked  with  eyes  that  reflected  all  its  splendor  at 
the  magnificence  of  their  altar. 

"  They're  here  for  you,"  Stransom  said,  "  they're 
present  to-night  as  they've  never  been.  They 
speak  for  you — don't  you  see  ? — in  a  passion  of 
light — they  sing  out  like  a  choir  of  angels.  Don't 
you  hear  what  they  say  ? — they  offer  the  very 
thing  you  asked  of  me." 

"  Don't  talk  of  it—don't  think  of  it ;  forget  it !  " 
She  spoke  in  hushed  supplication,  and  while  the 
apprehension  deepened  in  her  eyes  she  disengaged 
one  of  her  hands  and  passed  an  arm  round  him,  to 
support  him  better,  to  help  him  to  sink  into  a 
seat. 

16 


242  THE    ALTAR    OF    THE    DEAD 

He  let  himself  go,  resting  on  her  ;  he  dropped 
upon  the  bench,  and  she  fell  on  her  knees  ber'^e 
him  with  his  arm  on  her  shoulder.  So  he  remained 
an  instant,  staring  up  at  his  shrine.  "They  say 
there's  a  gap  in  the  array — they  say  it's  not  full, 
complete.  Just  one  more,"  he  went  on,  softly — 
"  isn't  that  what  yon  wanted  ?  Yes,  one  more, 
one  more." 

"  Ah,  no  more — no  more  ! "  she  wailed,  as  if 
with  a  quick,  new  horror  of  it,  under  her  breath. 

"Yes,  one  more,"  he  repeated  simply;  "just 
one  !  "  And  with  this  his  head  dropped  on  her 
shoulder  ;  she  felt  that  in  his  weakness  he  had 
fainted.  But  alone  with  him  in  the  dusky  church 
a  great  dread  was  on  her  of  what  might  still 
happen,  for  his  face  had  the  whiteness  of  death. 


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